Austere

[url]http://ninashyena.blogspot.com/2005/06/austere-revised.html[/url]

Austere

It was a rainy Wednesday. As with all rainy days, Mistress Constance was anticipating a call from Charlie. She woke from her nap on her living room couch to a ringing above her head where she’d tossed the phone after the long day of classes. Even before she touched the phone, she was certain it was Charlie. She’d actually been expecting Charlie’s call ever since the tail end of her acting class when she’d heard the thunder. He had a rain fetish and she was the only Dominatrix in the area, or so he claimed, that would work with his erratic scheduling and short notices. If there was a prediction of rain, he would schedule a session ahead of time. But if no rain came, he would always cancel. She got him to agree to pay for the first half hour if he actually showed up, but she wouldn’t charge him any cancellation fees if he called ahead, even if it was only minutes before his session; something most dominatrices would not do. She’d even allow him to call up at the first drop of rain, ask if she was busy and if she wasn’t, she’d take him right then.
But it wasn’t Charlie. The voice on the line was much younger than her fifty year old client. It was a voice that held all the qualities of a dandelion in fall. The boy said his name was Troy and his friend wanted to meet her.
She tried to keep the smirk out of her voice. “Your friend? Don’t you want to meet me?”
There was a familiar rattling, as if the boy had lost control of the receiver or his hand, then he croaked, “yes, but I’m scared.” Troy cringed within himself at the admission of his fear. What if she took that as a sign of weakness? What if she wanted nothing to do with someone so new to all of this?
But this refreshingly straightforward honesty endeared Constance to him. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”
“No,” Troy admitted, blushing and feeling himself become aroused at just the sound of her voice. “My friend has. He’s had prostitutes before, but...”
“I am not a prostitute,” Constance stated firmly. She truly had no qualm with that age old profession, but it wasn’t what she did and she hated being lumped into that category. “Is that going to be a problem? Because if you’re just looking for sex, you need to look elsewhere. There is no sex in my dungeon.” The statement wasn’t entirely true, she had taken lovers down there, but she never ****ed her clients.
“Th-that’s fine,” Troy whispered, afraid he had insulted her, “I’m sorry.”
“No need to be sorry,” Constance’s voice softened, cajoling him. “Why don’t you come with your friend for the consultation? That way, if you don’t see anything you like, you can just say that you went as moral support.”
“Do you charge for that?” His voice was a bit steadier, as they often are, when discussing money.
“Oh no, dahhhhhling,” she purred into the phone, falling easily into the roll of seductress, “never will I charge for moral support.” She smirked at her own joke, “But neither do I charge for the consultation. It’s kind of like getting an estimate for construction. You decide if I’ve got what it takes to give you what you want and I decide of you’re worthy of my skills.”
“W-where do we meet?” His voice had once again become fragile.
“At any restaurant of your choosing.”
“Can we meet today?” He asked quickly, the words melting into one another.
If she hadn’t heard that question asked a thousand different times in the same way, she probably wouldn’t have understood him. But it was familiar and always gave her a silent chuckle. “Well, I’m expecting a call from a client. But if he doesn’t call within the next half hour, I’m guessing he’s not going to and I sure as hell am not waiting around. So, I could call you. Can I take your number?” Hesitating, Troy glanced around his parent’s basement where he lived, wrapping the phone cord around his finger, wondering if he should give her what she wanted. What if his Mom answered? “I promise to only use it this once,” Constance purred from the other end of the line, “if I ever need it again, I’ll ask you for it. You have to start trusting at some point.” She imagined him chewing this over in his head. “Please?” The quick question was out of her mouth before she thought it. She bit her nail, wishing she could take the uncharacteristic word back. Why did I say that, she thought, shaking her head, unable to remember the last time she even used that word. But there was something about his voice that brought a softness out of her. He gave her the number, sounding satisfied to have heard her say please. Since Charlie never called, she phoned Troy back. He could think of no restaurant he would want to meet at, a common occurrence with many submissives - especially novice subs - so she made all the arrangements to meet him at the Buddha Diner and Café where she met most of her clients.
“I’ll be the woman with the briefcase wearing a top hat and a tuxedo. You will call me Mistress Constance.”
“I’ll be wearing nothing but a ****-ring,” he replied, then quickly recanted, “I’m just kidding. I’ll be wearing a blue tee-shirt and jeans. My friend’ll probably be wearing something much more flamboyant. He always does.”
Though the Buddha’s less than five minutes from Constance’s house, she gave herself half an hour to get ready. These things are always delicate and presentation is everything. When she got there, she saw several young men sitting alone in the booths along the walls. She had told him that he and his friend, though she doubted there was a friend at all, should sit in a booth. As she gazed over all the single men in the dim lighting of the place, she heard someone call Mistress, then another voice call Constance over the sound of waterfall that was coming from the speakers hidden in the high ceiling. A few of the lonely diners turned and watched the striking dark skinned red head as she looked over at the black and white booth with the two young boys in it. She had noticed them when first scanning the room, but they were sitting on the same side, so she had dismissed them as a couple; a very young couple. One of them, a tall Japanese boy with broad features, wearing a soft blue seventies leisure suit and a toothy grin motioned her over. Thinly drawn eyebrow raised, Constance strolled to the booth.
“Mistress Constance, right?” The waver’s eyes were wide with titillation. He wiggled in his chair like he was going to pee his pants.
Nodding, she sat across from them, “and you’re, Troy?” The voice didn’t sound right, but he was the more out spoken of the two.
“No,” his grin was unstoppable, “I’m Trosh. This,” he motioned to the quiet boy with a flip of his wrist, “is Troy.”
With eyes still on Trosh, she smirked, “Trosh and Troy?”
Trosh giggled like a seven year old girl in a blender, “yeah, I know, it sounds corny. But hey, I knew three girls named Jenny who were best friends in High School.” He shrugged.
Turning her attention to the quiet dark man (or rather boy, they were both so young!) in the corner, she smiled, “so you must be...” her voice trailed off as she stared into Troy’s charcoal eyes. His large hands fumbled with, almost knocking over, the drink in front of him. She tilted her head. “How did you...?”
Shaking his then shaggy afro-ed hair, he sputtered, “I swear, when Trosh asked me to do this, I had no idea.”
“I mean, there’s nothing wrong with...”
“Oh, I know. It’s just weird, you know?”
“Yeah, especially with what happened last time.”
“Seriously, I was thinking about that when Trosh asked...”
“You told him?”
“No, no, no... Oh no!”
“Not that there would be any...”
“Tell me what?” Trosh whined. He’d been trying to follow their conversation, a tennis match in fast forward, but it was too confusing. He shook his head, “what the hell? You two know each other?”
Simultaneously, Troy said yes and Constance said, sort of.
“Yeah, sort of, that’s better,” Troy nodded, his dusky cheeks flushing slightly. “I mean, she’s on my route. I deliver packages to her all the time, and it’s weird ‘cause I didn’t know what she did until like last Tuesday.”
Constance smirked and rolled her eyes remembering how Mr. S., her irksome second Tuesday of the month gig, had been running around her house in nothing but ankle shackles and a Hello Kitty thong. He wasn’t a small man by any stretch of the imagination, but worse than his size, was his arrogance and his need to be punished for real infractions. The only problem was, to punish him was to reward him. It was quite vexing, but he paid really well and it was only once a month. The doorbell rang and, giggling like a naughty schoolgirl, he opened it - which is strictly forbidden - even beyond running around the house in nothing but a thong. Seeing the bike messenger (he’d probably been hoping for a Jehovah’s Witness or some scouts selling cookies or Mormons), he screamed.

“Yeah,” Troy laughed, “there was some dude running around naked...”
“Uh-uh,” she grinned, “he had on a thong on.”
“Yeah, well he freaked out when he opened the door. Then you came storming up from the basement in that amazing black vinyl dress, yelling at him to get back in the dungeon and you called him, what was it? Oh yeah, a stupid little *****.”
“That’s ‘cause he is a stupid little *****,” she growled, then smiled, pulling two pens out of the inside pocket of her tuxedo jacket and setting them in the middle of the table.
“Wow. That’s quite the story,” Trosh said, looking at Troy, “and you never told me.”
Troy shrugged, “It’s only been a week.”
“Huh,” Trosh sounded, still looking at his friend. Shaking his head, he looked back at Constance nervously, “so, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“Well, us, I guess.”
“Do you come as a pair?” She asked, grinning.
“No,” the boys intoned in unison, then snickered.
“Would it be cheaper if we did?” Troy grinned.
“You mean two for the price of one?” Constance asked, enjoying the friendly banter.
“Yeah,” Troy challenged, “something like that.”
Constance took a moment and looked at the both of them. To them, it was still completely unreal, but she knew the reality of it all. “I’m not a sandwich shop. I charge per person and per hour, not per session.”
Troy blushed, something he seemed to do a lot and she was beginning to enjoy thoroughly, “I was, umm, kidding.”
“No need to say that. It was a valid question. After we’ve had a few sessions and if I feel so inclined, there is a possibility of deals being worked out.” She steepled her black gloved fingers on the table and leaned her chin on them, “I am a fan of customer loyalty and I like to reward my favorite servants.” Leaning back, she looked at them critically, “but to answer your question, what do I think? Well, I think you both look rather young.”
Trosh furrowed his face defiantly, “we’re of age, I swear.”
“No need to swear, just prove it.” The boys looked at each other, then took out their drivers licenses, proving that they were both nineteen; much younger than her normal clientele, but still of age.
Smiling she picked up her black briefcase and put it on the table. As she began to rummage through it, Troy asked, “how old are you?”
She paused and looked into his onyx stare. Normally, she would have given the line of, it’s impolite to ask a lady and all that. But for some reason, he made her feel the need to share everything with him. “I’m twenty-five,” she said.
“Prove it,” he demanded, not taking his eyes from hers.
She smirked, “if I did that, you’d know my real name.”
“Are you afraid of that?” As his dark eyes dared her gray ones, she felt the rest of the world slip away. There was no friend, no restaurant, no contract to be filled out. She hypnotically removed her wallet from her pocket, her eyes never leaving his, and held it up so he could see the state ID sitting in the little plastic window. He glanced at it, grinned, then captured her gaze once again. “Your real name IS Constance.” She smiled, putting the wallet away. “Thank you,” he murmured, looking down at the table.
Released from the hold of his eyes, she nodded. Fighting the fluttering in her belly, she began talking in her most business like manner. “Other than needing to know you’re both over eighteen, I can’t say as I’ve come to any opinions as of yet. There’s a bit of business we have to do before I even begin the consultation. Is that all right?” Trosh glanced at Troy nervously and nodded. Troy raised his head slowly and she looked away. “Good,” she swallowed taking out three packets, one for each boy and one for herself, “let’s begin.”
The contract was standard, beginning with a fill in the blank quiz on their understanding of what BDSM is; if they’re more into the Bondage and Discipline or the Dominance and Submission or the SadoMasochism or any combination of the three and what it all means to them. Since Constance had done this more than a dozen times just within the last year, she already had hers filled out. The beauty of that was that she could observe the boys responding and help with any questions they might have. Trosh kept cracking jokes, making it painfully obvious that this might be a bit too intense for him. But Troy was serious and focused; paying little attention to his friend’s remarks. He read it completely without filling anything in, then flipped back to the first page and began reading it again, slowly.
Licking her lips, Constance snuck a peek at her watch. She had been there for over an hour and a half, far exceeding the time she usually liked to spend on a first consultation, even with two possible clients. “Listen, I have another appointment to get to, so why don’t you take those home and give me a call when you’ve filled it out. That way, each of you can have a private consultation. Don’t worry,” she added, patting a gloved hand on each of their naked ones, “that will be free as well. I only charge for the sessions.”
Troy smiled and nodded gravely as Trosh hopped up and threw his arms around her neck in thanks. As she stood to leave, Troy slid out of the booth, took her hand gently in his, slid the glove down passed the heel of her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist as he knelt on one knee. Looking up into her opulent eyes, with her hand still in his, he whispered, “I am your servant.”
Several hours later in her kitchen making some stir fry for dinner, she found herself staring dreamily out the window as she stroked her wrist where he kissed her. Snickering at herself, she sighed, “oh Constance, don’t go falling for a client.”

It was three days before Troy called her back. Trosh never did, not that she was all that surprised. During those three days, she found herself distracted in all her classes, thinking about her messenger boy, wondering when he was going to call. She constantly reprimanded herself, when she realized what she was doing, only to find her mind wandering into a daydream of Troy minutes later.
Their sessions became part of her weekly routine, and she charged him much less than she did any of her other clients, telling herself that it was only fair since he was a college student like her. At first, she would invariably find herself wondering how he felt about her. But after a while, she incorporated her desires for him into the scenes they were building.
Troy liked to be berated for any small infraction his Mistress would point out and punish him for. As the light from the wrought iron sconces scattered throughout the basement bounced off the black pleather of the dungeon walls to shimmer in the tears of his coal eyes, he would cry and beg for forgiveness. At those times, he would be strapped to the leviathan black whipping chair in the middle of the room, or chained to the large wooden Catherine’s wheel, his naked body in an X, next to the three foot toy box with the red silk cloth with a plethora of little black devils dancing over it. Or she would suspend him in shackles and whip him as he danced on his toes trying to keep his balance across from the wall adorned with the chains and whips and riding crops and floggers and canes she would select to use on him. He also liked to play quite a few rolls that were very similar. His favorites were the damsel in distress, captured by the fierce yet sexy pirate or the warrior enslaved by the merciless guard. But the schoolboy caught masturbating in the classroom by his teacher was his absolute favorite.
One day he arrived with an exciting new idea for a scene. He wanted to play himself, a college boy and for Constance to be a strict librarian who happened upon him napping in one of the reading chairs after the library was already closed. But as they began to play, he called the safeword “yellow” to halt the action after she came upon his sleeping form and bound his wrists.
At first, Constance was upset, he was always doing this; stopping the scene to make little adjustments that never seemed to amount to much. But, after scolding him and taking him over her knee for a spanking, something they had worked out early on in their negotiations to be part of his calling “yellow” to pause rather than stop the scene, she wondered if this wasn’t part of the fantasy for him. But as they tried again, he called “red,” ending the scene entirely.

Setting him on his knees before her, she wrapped her arms around his head, pulling him into her chest. She sighed, “maybe we should just go for coffee and start all over again.”
He pulled his head back and looked up at her. “Your Marian the Librarian outfit is great, especially with those half moon glasses. It’s just difficult to imagine that the walls around me are enormous bookcases filled with books. Everything keeps distracting me.” He lowered his head to her lap and she saw that his hands were still bound in silk behind his back. Oops, I must be slipping, she thought as she leaned over to untie him. One thing any dominatrix worth her salt knows is that when the safe word is called, the first thing that must be done, is undo all the binding. But Troy always distracted her. She could not focus with him. She was always slipping, making her wonder if she was the best Mistress for him after all.
“Mistress, I don’t know how else to tell you that I’m sorry. I always ruin it and say the wrong thing. I shouldn’t even be allowed to be your client. I’m shit, I’m the dirt under your heel, I am unworthy...” Troy’s voice trailed off into sobs as he buried his face into her lap.
Absently, she lightly stroked his bald head with her short nails. As his whimpering turned into hiccups, his arms girdled lightly about her waist. He pulled himself closer, his chest on her knees, his cheek pressed against her firm plump belly. Her voice came out tender as she looked down on him, “oh Troy, what am I going to do with you?”
Pulling his head back, he smiled up at her, tears still drying on his carmel skin. “Whatever you want.”
Smiling softly, she shook her head, “you don’t know what you’re offering.”
Sitting back on his heels, Troy’s face became very thoughtful. He rubbed his hands in his lap and chewed at his lower lip. After a few minutes of half a dozen different hand gestures and facial twitches, he finally settled on taking her hands into his, and stopped chewing his lip to look up into her confused face. “Constance, I’ve been coming here for a year. A year ago today is when we had our first session.” He paused, holding her gaze as he had over a year ago at the dinner. She waited, forgetting to breathe, for him to continue. “You’re an artist. I love the stories you tell, the scenes you set up, the characters you invent. I worship you. If I was watching, I’d believe it fully.”
“Maybe we should try a little voyeurism,” She suggested, squeezing his fingers.
Troy shook his head, “no, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m not interested in watching someone else have their fantasy fulfilled.” Sighing, he dropped her hands and looked at his where they fell limp in his lap. Taking a deep breath, he continued. “You’re always telling me,” he sighed, his eyes lowered, afraid to look at her face, “that I can share any desire I have with you, right?” She nodded, forgetting he couldn’t possibly see her. “So here it is. I don’t want the fantasy, I want it for real. I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t do a scene where I know I will eventually have to step back into my own skin, pay you and leave. I’m no good at acting. And to be perfectly honest, I just want you, not a character. I want to make love to you. I want to lay you down and worship every inch of your body with my tongue. I want to be your slave, for real. I want to be your pet, your lover, your friend. I want to worry about where you are and be relieved when you come home. I want to share a home with you and when you have a bad day, I want you to take it out on me. I want to put my life in your hands. I want to sleep at your feet every night except on those rare occasions when you let me wrap myself around you. And sometimes,” he paused, gathering air in his lungs, trembling in the knowledge that the next part held more truth than he was quite ready to admit. Then he raised his head and looked into her eyes. “I want to be on top. I want to bring you to the brink of ecstasy. I want to tie you up and tease you for hours. I want to watch you cry at my hand only to hold you safe, your life at my whim.” Biting his lip, he looked down again, “I also want to read you bedtime stories that have nothing to do with sex or sensuality. And yes,” his eyes lifted again to view her inscrutable face, “I want to go for coffee with you.”
“Is that all?” She asked, without even a breath of inflection. He nodded. She pursed her lips and looked through the walls of the basement to her life beyond. She’d often thought that having a slave, a lover, then switching and making him master could be interesting. But looking into his eyes, she could only see an overflow of trust. No one should trust anyone that much. It terrified her. With such absolute trust comes so much responsibility. Is she up for it? She sighed, thinking, we already have a contract. We have a contract that separates my personal life from my professional one. I can’t do this. He should not have asked.
“No,” she said, suppressing the shaking feeling in her gut as she stood. His puppy eyes looked sadly up at her. “You must leave. Now.”
“But -”
“No.” Holding herself aloft, she averted her eyes from his and looked over his head to the door leading to the stairs off to the left. Slowly, she raised her arm, looking straight ahead, and pointing to the stairs.
He stood, his head hanging, and dragged himself over there. She didn’t move, but she could feel the pain burning in his chest because it burned within her too. She couldn’t hear his heaviness over her own heart vibrating wildly as he hauled himself out the door and up the stairs.
The door slammed and her arm fell to her side. Her knees melted beneath her and she crumbled to the floor, the brown wig with the tight bun tumbling from her head.
“Wait a minute,” the voice exploded from the top of the stairs as Troy came barreling down. “This isn’t right!” He shouted, gathering his crestfallen Mistress off the ground and smothering her with a kiss. Pulling away, he looked into her eyes still brimming with tears. “I will not take no. I know you have feelings for me. If that means I have to be your master, then consider yourself my slave.”
She nodded, dumbfounded. Elated yet terrified, she asked, “what happens now?”
An evil grin encompassed Troy’s face as he whispered, “now, we begin again.”

wtf?

do you mind paraphrasing a little?