Melody FireMature

Melody Fire is a professional dominatrix from LA. She is surrounded by glamorous women, showered with gifts and is known worldwide. Her only problem is, she has no idea how to function in the real world.

I haven't seen daylight in days. Maybe a week, perhaps. You lose track of time in here. I wonder why I don't just go outside, breath in some air not clouded with a decade of cigarette smoke. Then again, whenever I'm out of these solid concrete walls of the studio, I never truly feel safe.

"Melody, hand me the good brush. I've got a session in five," Serenity chirps next to me in front of the dressing room mirror.

I hand it over and continue to slowly line my lips in a deep, blood red lipstick. I stare at myself, face caked in makeup that only looks good under bright filming lights or the darkness of the boudoir. In this light, I look like a garish character of myself. Despite the layers of foundation, I can see the tiny wrinkles under my eyes that formed over twenty eight years of worrying and I frown back at them. I'm too young for this.

"Baby, you need to get some sleep," Celene says in her soothing, yet terrifying motherly tone as she passes behind me. I stare over at her, the woman that never sleeps. She saunters over to the mirror and twirls her raven hair into chopstick and stands, arms akimbo in a black tee shirt and a too tight pair of black lace panties admiring her petite frame. None of us are ever fully dressed here, and I smile to myself. The constant parade of nudity within the dressing room has made feeling naked feel just as normal as wearing a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. Once a whole room has seen, felt and commented on your tits, nothing bothers you anymore.

"Melody!" Celene rips me out of my own head. She's cradling the phone in her hand expectantly.


"You've got a live one, can you be ready in a few minutes?" She stands there, hand covering the mouth piece in anticipation.

"What do they want?"

"This asshole is being vague. But you're good at reading a person, I'm sure you will wing it just fine," she says before putting on her fake receptionist voice on the phone and giving the mystery person directions.

I head over to the closet, scouring my brain for the best outfit strategy. I'm already wearing a black lace lingerie set with matching garters and stockings from the last session, so I grab a simple red wrap dress from the hanger and quickly put it on and brush out the tangles from the ends of my long sandy blonde hair.

"Classic," Celene comments, "Like a hot, mean mom." I have no idea what that means but I smile.

"You want any toys?" She asks, opening up a closet door revealing every gadget of torture I could imagine. I could see her eyes dart towards the backside of the door where every shape and size of leather paddles hung in anticipation.

"I think I'm good," I say confidently, "If I need anything I will come back." Celene shrugs and plops down on the purple futon to light a cigarette.

"Suit yourself," she says.

Moments later the phone rings and Celene is buzzing someone in. It was the usual drill. Elusive directions, secret pass codes, a faint knock on the door. Celene pulls on a tight black skirt and pumps as she turned the corner down the long hallway to let in our visitor. I could hear her putting on her fake, coy receptionist voice as she lead our mystery visitor into the red room. The door closed for a moment, then reopened a few minutes later followed by the sound of heels.

"He wants you to humiliate him," Celene says as she emerges with a clipboard propped on her hip. "He didn't give me much else to go by so good luck in there." She tosses off her pumps and rips off the pencil skirt faster than I can say another word and starts to light a cigarette with a look of relief on her face. In this space, being a different person is as simple as putting on an article of clothing. 

I take a deep breath, fluff my hair in the mirror one last time and walk down the red carpet of the hallway. I hesitate in front of the door, take one last breath and push it open confidently. Whoever I was in the dressing room was now gone and I am now someone completely new for the next hour.

I love the red room the most, it is the darkest of the rooms in the studio, with a large red and ivory Persian carpet, red lamps that cast an eerie sensual glow, a large black bondage bed and a Saint Andrew's cross in the corner. A plump,middle aged man was crouched on the middle of the rug completely naked, head plastered to the floor in a bowing position.

I walk in, feeling as if this was all clinical. Just another routine day and another patient. As I get closer to the pale body on the ground I walk circles around him, letting him feel the hem of my skirt brush against his pasty skin. He shudders from the contact. I stop with the point of my heel at his balding head.

"Sit up," I bark at him. He meekly lifts his head to look at me, slowly rising until he is just on his knees. His face is haggard, though aged probably beyond his years. His pale blue eyes framed by sagging bags that hinted nights of not sleeping and stress, and his unfit body showed a lack of exercise. His eyes widened and his mouth opens in shock as he begins to sob. I hate when they cry for no reason. I can feel my right hand itching in anticipation to strike his sagging, pathetic face but I hold back. It's just too easy.

"Do you have any respect for me?" I shout as I lean close to his face, grabbing him by the chin and tightening my grip as I straighten his face to align with mine.

"Yes, Mistress," he blubbered, tears streaming down his face. My hand gravitates towards the back of his head, my fingers grasping what is left of his thinning light hair as I shove his head violently towards the ground.

"If you had any ounce of respect for me, you would greet me properly," I hiss into his ear. He shudders from the sobs.

"Kiss my shoes, you pathetic little raisin of a man. If that's what you even are," I order. He begins to vigorously peck at the shiny patent leather of my heels. I laugh to myself, realizing that I just used the word raisin as an insult. I was getting much better coming up with insults at random these days. His puckered lips tap at my fit rhythmically like a chicken pecking at corn. The sight of it makes me sick.

"I'm so sorry, Mistress," he meekly apologizes as he continues to kiss the entirety of my shoe. His hands slowly reach up to touch my ankles and stroke the soft skin of my legs but I am not going to allow that kind of behavior go unpunished. My heel swiftly lifts, kicking his face backwards and in seconds I am pushing him backwards and pinning him to the ground with my hands wrapped around his throat with trained procision. My pointy red acrylic nails dig into his skin and I can see his eyes bulging in fear.

"Never under any circumstance do you touch me without my permission. Is that clear you little shit?" He nods silently, the look of fear plastered in his eyes. It is hard to tell if he is truly trained or just pretending to be unruly to get my attention. My right hard arches back and I bring it down hard against his cheek with trained precision. It was loud and I feel the pleasant sting in my hand from a satisfying blow.

I release my tight grip and stand up, smoothing out my skirt and motion with my hand for him to assume a worthy position. He reluctantly returns to resting on his knees with his hands complacently at his side.

"Now that you understand the rules here, why don't you tell me why you're here," I say changing to a more soothing tone. If I can keep him in a balance of constant anticipation of fear and alternating comfort, he will be putty in my hands.

He sniffles for a moment. "I'm not a man, I'm not worthy be a man. I'm just a lousy little shrimp. And a sissy," he moans.

"Yes, you disgust me to the foulest degree," I say with a sweet smile. I trace my nails behind his ears gently as if he were a small kitten. He shudders again and tears stream down his face.

"You will never get a woman like me," I say as I bend down closer to his face, letting my warm breath pour over him. "In fact, I doubt any woman would even touch you, let alone look at you. You're a disgusting little excuse for a human."

He seems satisfied with what I have to say, but continues to sob like a baby. I am quickly getting tired of his antics.

"Listen up," I say with a return of my stern voice, "If you are going to act like a baby, then I'm going to treat you like a baby."

"No," he breathes in a gasp.

"That's right," I say, feeling my smile tighten into a hard sneer. I saunter over to a large oak cabinet and opened the door slightly, pulling out a large adult sized diaper and turn to reveal it to the blubbering man.

"No, Mistress. I'm not a baby," he cries out.

"You are whatever I say you are, do you understand me?" He nods and I throw the diaper at his face. He reluctantly begins to pull it on. His frowning features made me smile.

"Lay on the ground," I order. He lays on his back and I quickly take my position standing over him. He could probably see up my skirt, but I am going to teach him otherwise.

"What are you?" I ask.

"A little baby," he says softly.

"That's right," I smile, "Now crawl around like a baby." He looks up at me with child's eyes expecting me to take back what I said. He dares not to do as I demanded and my glance hardens. I swiftly walk towards the corner of the room and plucked a simple long bamboo cane from an antique umbrella stand filled with various canes and crops. I can see him inching away from me.

"You move one more inch and your ass will be so bloody you won't be able to sit for a week," I threaten, pointing the thin bamboo cane at him menacingly.

"No," he softly moans. In seconds I am overtaking him, thrusting him onto his stomach and pushing his head down until he is on all fours. He sobs as I rip the diaper from his behind and strengthened my grip on the cane. I give him no warning before the bamboo is plunging through the air and making a delicious snapping noise on his bare skin. I can already feel the high. Nothing comes close to the feeling you have when you can snap a piece of bamboo on flesh. A red welt begins to form on his skin and he is quieter now. I can see his body begin to relax. I assume he thought I was done, but once I start, it's hard to stop.

"Crawl," I demand. He inches forward slowly, but it is not enough to satisfy me. The cane comes down again, but this time harder. He cries out in pain. I knew this one would leave a nice thin purple bruise. He begins to slowly crawl around the room in a large circle. I follow him, swatting him with the cane as he did so. I begin to get bored, and I ache for something more extreme.

"Get up," I growl. He picks himself up slowly, and seems to have a hard time doing so, like someone with bad knees. He stumbles a bit taking a few steps forward, and I rip the remainder of the diaper from him. He looks up at me, ashamed and expectant for the next move.

"The cross. Now," I order. He shuffles to the giant X of the Saint Andrew's cross and stands facing it with slumped shoulders and a bowed head. I cross the room to a basket beside the bed and pull out a hand full of leather cuffs.

"In the position," I order. He knows the drill and I can only assume that he is a kink veteran of many years by the way he aligns his arms and legs with the cross, ready to be shackled. 

The sweet scent of leather hits my nose as I gently put the cuffs around his wrists and fasten them to the cross. His legs spread for me, and I continue to his ankles to assure that he will not be going anywhere. My hand is already aching to strike again and I reach for the cane with a smile. Again, he whimpers.

"Shut up," I growl at him, "Your only place now is to be a whipping post for practice, do you understand me? One shriek from your tiny shrimp mouth and I'll reduce you to a pile of shit on the floor." My hand tightens around the cane, and pulls back before I let him answer. It comes down on his back side with a snapping sound and his entire body quivers and he groans, gritting his teeth. I can tell he is trying to impress me with his pain tolerance. The cane comes down again, but softer and quicker this time, with more frequency. I decide to warm him up rather than be cruel. As much as I am a sadist, I'm no amatuer. 

His ass is now a beautiful rosy shade, and ready for an attack. 

The End

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