Mistress Vancouver Dominatrix, Fetish, Discipline, Domination



What is it that I wore that afternoon? What seductive clothing covered/revealed my skin? What was it I decided to seduce him with? Soft sheer fabric? The skin-tight glove-leather? Or was it latex? Tulips fade as I recall this, because what was great about that afternoon was not what I wore—each time it's a different outfit, but that the dressing up for these occasions is already an arousing experience in itself. What was great was the way he had let me treat him.

I don't even remember the day, or the weather, nor the features of his face. I remember the feeling of total symbiosis of my commands with his obedience. What stood out was a mixture of a proud and gentle acceptance of my endurance test: I owned his balls and cock secured in a parachute and this ownership, for the time being in our session, was further pushed by having him crawl behind me, leash attached to both his collar and his balls, too. "One step behind me! Keep a one step space between my leathered ass and your bowed face and for focus, look directly at the heels of my stilettos!" —I said firmly and clearly, and gave the leash a little tug, tightening it, shortening the distance between the understanding of his lowered position and my enforcement of it.

"The pull will be felt around your whole being while you crawl. Make sure not to let the leash loosen even just a quarter of an inch: that would mean you're not paying attention, you're not focused enough to be lead on the leash by me, you're not worthy of my training!" —this being said I lifted his chin with my gloved hands, raised his head and pierced him with my stern gaze and luscious red lips. "And one more thing, you little slave: don't dare to bump into my ass! Keep the leash tight at all times! Understood?" "Yes, Domina Katarina, I understand!" —the lack of words due to his stripped masculine ego made his answer this simple.

As I started walking across my studio—stilettos clicking, hips swaying in the sensuous movement of a sexually confident woman, perfume's trace in the air, followed by a man on all fours, sniffing—I realized I didn't want to challenge his diligent obedience by sudden changes in pace or sharp turns. I myself indulged in this wonderful little indoor stroll. The leash was tight, the comforting ease of control I felt stiffened my nipples and they rubbed against the sheer mesh of my tank top as I imagined —"Hmmm, perhaps he is good in other spheres, too...."

Head in the clouds, I stopped and turned as he just bumped into me, not maintaining the precious space between us. I granted him seconds that felt like minutes to look at my face and stare into my eyes, only to have him enjoy then regret what he just did: he came too close, too fast, releasing the tautness of the leash, maybe because of pain, maybe because of his intention to test my limits, maybe because he just simply wanted to bury his face into my ass, feeling the softness of leather pants. The smile on my face dissolved, the dreaminess morphed into the present, the present urged me to react. But I took my time with the punishment, prolonging and expanding the actual consequence. I knew how I wanted him to suffer for me, for his inattentiveness and impatience. I planned it all out ahead of time: there is no slave, no slave whatsoever, who is hundred per cent excellent and impeccable with his performance. It goes against the very nature of subservience: the weaker serves the stronger, the stronger takes charge, the weak remains inferior because of his default error/glitch/imperfection. This, of course, doesn't exclude his striving for improvement. That's the motivation. That's why the intention: intention matters, intention to be near a Sexy Goddess, who can train him.

I pulled the poor slave by the balls on the leash into the centre of the room. I unclipped the hook from the cock bondage, and clipped his wrists behind his back with it. I left him kneeling like that—exposed and vulnerable, naked and trembling, naked and ashamed of his hard-on, naked and humiliated, yet content as if blissful, waiting for and accepting the ordeal. He kept on looking and looking while I adjusted my cupless bra, fixed up my leather gloves and reapplied my lipstick in front of a large mirror. Then, slowly, enjoying each step, each click-sound of my high heel boots, I moved toward him, so close, that holding his hair I pressed his face into the leather of my under-bust corset, having him breathe in the scent of the most powerful material, and his closed eyes said it all, his involuntary moans said it all, his erection talked louder than his voice. That's when I jerked his head back, penetrating his surprised eyes with mine, grabbed him by the chin and forced him to open his mouth. "Open your mouth slave, now!" —and I spat into the hollow of his submissive soul, then my hand slid down to and firmly squeezed his hard dick. "And now swallow it, slave!" I ferociously stroked his cock until his gulp and then "...please stop!"

As he was ordered to signal, my gloved hand stopped the tease-torture right at the edge without slipping. "Thank you, Domina Katarina!" —thanked the very aroused, orgasm denied slave.


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