MY SISSY

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2021

Warning: If you don’t like reading fetish stories, then stop reading now.

Author’s Note: I originally wrote this under a different name on a different website when I was doing some quick, just-for-fun, creative writing. It stood out, and I thought it better placed here. So, I revised it a little and tidied it up and — voila — here it is.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

RT

I was in aisle 9 looking for some fresh avocados.

My diet has changed over the years. I used to eat more meat and potatoes, so to speak. Today, I am almost entirely vegan. A woman has to watch her figure, and it gets harder to do so the older one gets.

I was 40 years old and often felt like it. Yes, my diet made me feel leaner and “cleaner”. My bowel regularity had never been better (and easier). Nonetheless, I could already detect the oncoming years. A few too many wrinkles around my eyes and lips. Some around my neck. Breasts? Sagging, sadly. A bigger belly. More cellulite. Less energy.

I did yoga everyday now. I ran when I could every second day or so, meaning, I ran if the weather was blue skies and warm. I didn’t hesitate to use my stationary bike. And I did use some small dumbbells to strengthen me. Although I kept my arms active at work, I had begun to notice some extra flab on my triceps.

My work...

I’ll admit straight up that I was a professional Dominatrix, a “Domme” if you please; I prefer the feminine spelling. It started in university when I needed some money to help pay my tuition. I saw a small ad on some fetish website, inquired, and soon found myself at “The Study”.

Wanda taught me how to be a Domme. She ran the erotica/fetish store. She had been over 50 years old at the time and was well-versed in the ways and wiles of subs, masochists, novices, and explorers. To my surprise, she insisted upon interrogating me before I saw a single whip.

As she explained so thoroughly all those years ago, a good Domme requires a good sub (or several). The good sub is necessary for a good Domme’s own fulfillment and spiritual well-being. The Domme must be attentive to the sub, care for the sub, nurture the sub. The trade-off is that the sub is satisfied on an emotional and sexual level and that the sub provides for the Domme. Very symbiotic.

“There’s nothing wrong with exorcising a few of your demons on a willing sub,” she counselled me, “but any veering into pure sadism diminishes you and will close the sub’s heart to you. Firm even extremely firm, but not abusive nor dehumanizing.”

With such counsel in mind, I began lesson #1 — which to my surprise required me to be a sub. That lasted three sessions. I experienced first-hand the pleasure and release of being flogged and constrained. I also lost some of my reluctance to be naked in front of strangers.

No, Wanda did not inflict any penetrating humiliations upon me. Rather, she just educated me in the sub’s perspective. While I kind of enjoyed the therapeutic element of floggings, I frankly preferred the pleasure of having one of my boyfriends give me a good massage.

For several ensuing lessons, I assisted Wanda in her dungeon. “Watch and learn,” she counselled. I watched and learnt a great deal.

Most of her clients were men: businessmen, lawyers, executives, managers, husbands, bachelors, large, short, fat, skinny, muscular, lean — all sorts. Some were women: again, all sorts. If both had one thing in common, then it seemed to me to be a desire to let go, to not care, to feel for a brief moment in their lives that they were not subject to rules.

There were, of course, always rules. People may have the wrong impression about the rules imposed by Wanda at The Study. Yes, the clients had to grovel and call us, “Mistress”. And, yes, there were consequences for failing to comply. Afterall, they paid us (the Dommes) to inflict appropriate punishments upon them if they failed to comply

Overlooked by many, perhaps, are the rules that a good dungeon imposes on its Dommes. Health, hygiene, cleanliness. Recognition of physical stress, de-escalation techniques, even First-Aid!

Above all, Wanda schooled us in reading a sub. Can you tell me the difference between a face in pain and one in bliss? Sometimes, the difference is imperceptible. Similarly, a bruising welt and a tantalizingly pleasurable one. Equally, a scream of horror and a scream of orgasm.

“The client is always right!” is the adage. Wanda believed in it firmly. She insisted that we give the customer what they wanted (in spades, I might add) without ever transgressing into sadism. It’s a fine line, a discerning skill — and it became my second job.

My primary job after uni was in finance. I invested other people’s money and made them richer. I got richer too, steadily. My student debts gone, I began to live well. The cars came and went: a new one every year. So did the boyfriends: a new one every two or three months. I do not think that I was ever dumped. No, they simply couldn’t keep up to me or they soon bored me.

It never bothered me too much. Having seen men in the dungeon at The Study, I knew well how to both inflate and deflate a male ego quickly. And mine was simply fabulous, thank you.

I didn’t need the dungeon’s money. Honestly, being a Domme was pure fun! The scene. Munches for reconnaissance, socials on Zoom, board game nights at The Study, vanilla sloshes with BDSM like-minded people (often couples), watching a few gangbangs, FemDomme Play Parties for the joy and entertainment of empowered women and for subs to be adored for the wonderful little play things that they are! There was so much that’s hidden from the eyes of mainstream life and I reveled in it.

By the time I approached my thirtieth birthday, I was also feeling the need for a partner. I knew myself; ours would always have to be a slightly unequal partnership. I knew men. They can be fragile and strong, boisterous and meek, dominant and submissive. They come in all shapes, sizes, and personalities. I just had to find the right man for me, the Domme.

And I had.

I thought I had.

Back to aisle 9.

-----000-----

I bumped into a woman in aisle 9.

I dropped my avocados and bent to pick them up. The woman bent too and helped me. We gathered them and put them in the plastic bag. I looked at her.

She was gorgeous! My height of five-seven, taller still in the tawny leather short ankle booties she wore. She struck me as sinewy and lean; she plainly worked out. Her shiny mane was set in a low ponytail but maintained its volume. Lovely diamonds (no, not zirconia). Her gold Patek Philippe shone. Her several impressive rings glittered. Her modest makeup was distinctly light pink and glossy: confident and distinguished. Capping off her beauty were faded designer jeans, a mauve T-shirt, and a snappy black leather jacket.

I was impressed.

She looked at me, first with reeling shock and then with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“Carrie Walters,” the deep husky voice taunted.

I didn’t recognize the voice, but the face intrigued me.

“Do I...” I began.

I stopped.

I did.

I did know her.

My jaw dropped.

Kevin Winston.

-----000-----

When I was 30 and fairly well established both as a financial investor and as a Domme, I one night (doing my Domme thing) handled a new client. Wanda informed me that he had asked for me: “He told me a friend of his had recommended you,” she said. I introduced myself my usual Domme way. I smiled my warmest welcoming smile. A steady customer likes to be smiled at. I wanted steady customers and so I smiled at him.

He said he was experimenting.

He was very young, with an innocently attractive air about him. I found him cute in a puppy dog (or kitten) sort of way. He completed the intake form, and I directed him to the change room while I perused it.

Kevin Winston, 23 years old, corporate junior accountant. In the box “Interests”, he described himself as a “vanilla man who wants to explore the spectrum of life”.

That caught my eye. Most of my clients are more specific in describing their interests: e.g. spanking, clamps & clips, pegging, edging, etc. Kevin was plainly a novice — and open to learning.

And therein I saw an opportunity.

Our first session was fairly tame. I flogged him, having sold him on the therapeutic merits of the lash. I got his dopamine levels up. He enjoyed it and asked for more. I lightly did him over. After the hour, I was pleased with myself, and he was pleased with me.

You can imagine my surprise when, later that week, I saw him at the office!

It may shock you — or make you laugh — the number of times during my day-business day that I walked past clients. Theirs was often a startled face which I would return with a knowing grin. No one outside The Study wants to see a Domme in her everyday attire recognizing them. Context and setting matter! I enjoyed each and every one of those embarrassing moments.

Regardless, I asked him to come to my office. The door closed, we chatted. I found him charming and sweet. His youthful naivety was striking. He seemed eager to agree with me. Our coffee finished, he returned to his cubicle. I knew he would see Mistress Carrie again.

And he did, several times, always a loving flogging. He never asked me for sex; many clients do, and I shun them; no full service from me. His seduction of me went a different way; he asked me whether I could review a corporate report he was working on. Flattered, I agreed.

Things escalated into office coffee, a workday lunch, a dinner, a movie and a dinner, and eventually a movie, a dinner, and a simple kiss. Flowers, surprise chocolates, a wonderful bottle of Dom Perignon (Dom: hah!) on my desk. Above all, his eyes: his eyes never left me. I was convinced of his adoration of me.

I, in turn, must admit that I was increasingly attracted to him. Older man, younger woman: it’s so cliché. Older woman, younger man; now that’s not uncommon these days but was a new experience for me. I sensed his passion and loyalty.

Each of which I caringly reinforced in one session per week.

I’m a woman. I wanted children. I had had studs and bulls, dominants and submissives, cater to my sexual desires through the years. None had ever touched my heart the sensitive manner that Kevin did. A weekend getaway to the Hamptons, another to Lake Placid, yet another to a pigsty bar in the upper state that had live bands. Glorious. Each moment with him was glorious.

Having seen (and slept in) his one-bedroom apartment, I eventually asked him to move in with me.

And he did.

-----000-----

“Oh my God! Kelly!” I exclaimed.

She smiled back at me and moved to give me a hug. I gripped her closely, partly out of loving memories gone by, partly out of guilt.

“How are you, Carrie? It’s been a long time.”

“Fine. Getting by. Doing my usual at the office and elsewhere.” I grimaced as I completed that sentence. I should not have mentioned “elsewhere” to her. I swore to avoid that subject again with her.

Kelly half-closed her eyes and nodded with an understanding smile.

“I’m sorry, Kelly. It is ‘Kelly’ now, isn’t it?”

She nodded.

I continued. “How about we leave our carts here and grab a coffee? I’d so much appreciate an opportunity to—” I touched her hand, “—talk to you. I’ve never had a chance to say so much and I have so much to say. Please?”

I begged. I admit it; I begged.

She seemed unmoved by my plea but readily accepted my offer. We left our carts, left the grocery, and headed along the sidewalk toward “La Pâtisserie des Réves”, a trendy French bistro in the market.

I wanted to take her hand. This was someone whom I had loved but now, because of our history, could never hold again.

And it was all my fault.

-----000-----

The early days of our living together were rather normal. We assimilated whatever good kitchen utensils, pots and pans, and dinnerware he possessed into mine and disposed of the unwanted. His furniture was tacky and sent off to charity. I made some space in my walk-in closet and purchased a solid oak dresser for him.

The intimacy we shared was unsurpassed in my experience. He doted on me. He attended to me. He never hesitated to assist me in household tasks. He allowed me to lead, and he willingly followed. I could not have found a more emotionally comforting companion. My stress at work decreased. My enjoyment of life increased.

We complemented each other well.

Then, one day...

“What are you doing?” I coyly asked him.

He swiveled his head and looked at me, embarrassed.

“Putting your laundry away,” he said too nervously. I knew men. And I recognized instantly what he was doing: admiring my panties and lingerie.

“Kevin plays with lingerie,” I drawled non-judgmentally.

“It’s not like that,” he blustered.

“Yes. It. Is. Like. That,” I slowly teased.

He said nothing.

“My little baby likes my panties, it seems.”

The traffic on the streets below muffled its way into the temperate, air-conditioned room. I inched my way toward him, gently took his hand, and gave him what I knew he wanted: my permission.

“It’s okay. Try one on.”

He stared at me anxiously. To reassure him, I said what I had so oft said to him and to my many other clients who sought to stretch their boundaries:

“I can help you get what you want, if you want me to.”

After a visible gulp, he answered me: “May I please try one on?”

I lifted my head to pose an unstated question.

He answered it perfectly: “May I please try one on, Mistress Carrie?”

And thus our lives completely merged. Our domestic relationship stayed fairly much the same as before, but now he oft added “Mistress” when I led our conversations. Example: me) “Could you please fetch me a coffee with a couple of biscuits, Kevin?”; him) “Yes. Would you like it in the TV room or your office, Mistress?”

I never berated him for not calling me “Mistress” nor did I ever again demand that he so call me. Rather, I let things evolve.

And evolve they did.

-----000-----

We sat at “La Pâtisserie des Réves” and enjoyed the late afternoon sun. Two old friends. Two old lovers. A café. Memories. Reminiscing.

About the good times.

Eventually, I began to do what I felt I must do to relieve my burden.

“Kelly, I’ve had much time this past decade to reflect and contemplate my actions of years past. What I did to you was unconscionable. For my transgressions, I sincerely apologize. The settlement could never express more deeply than I can now how terribly sorry I am.

“I pushed you and pushed you. I thought that I was giving you what you wanted because it made me happy when I inflicted it upon you. I conflated my happiness with yours and forgot that our inner most feelings and emotions, to one another, ought never to be dominated by just mine. You were terrific, a caring and gentle lover, and my best friend. By my actions, I betrayed you. For all those things, I apologize.”

I wept as I spoke.

She reached into her purse and handed me a tissue.

She briefly touched my hand and smiled.

-----000-----

Soon after the panties, the pantyhose went on. Then, around our apartment, the heels. The skirts. The blouses. At each turning point, Kevin said nothing. He merely looked at me and awaited my instruction.

“Do you really want this?” I would ask. He would nod. I would provide. I can’t remember his ever saying that he wanted a particular outcome or a novelty. Instead, his permitted feminization crept up on us. In our apartment.

One night, as we were preparing to attend a Japanese roping evening at The Study, he approached me wearing his pink heels, white hosiery, and a Little Bo Peep dress and blouse. A blonde wig adorned his head. He would have slicked back and hidden his long hair to accomplish the look.

But that look! Oh, even today, it stirs my loins. He was simply adorable. I inhaled the surrender emanating from him. I inhaled it; my power grew.

“Is this what you want to wear?” I playfully asked.

He lowered his head. “At your suggestion, Mistress.”

It was intoxicating!

The other Dommes mocked him mercilessly. That is part and parcel of any event attended by Dommes and subs. It could have been a munch, yes, in which case the mockery would have been present but subdued. It could have been a Pet Play Party with any of us (the Dommes of course) holding his leash. They came to know him and respect his respectfulness. Never was a cruel word uttered by him to my friends nor my face.

He went along with it, as I certainly knew he would.

That said, do not misconstrue my actions. We also shared many tender nights out on the town dressed as Carrie and Kevin, cavorting as couples do on a night on the town. Many of those excursions culminated in fantastic, sweet romantic lovemaking at home — or in a conveniently located hotel on the West Side.

The exhilaration of being a recently promoted investment banker and an emboldened confident Domme opened my eyes to all the possibilities that life could offer. A fine house, a Merc in the driveway and an upscale SUV in the garage, a maid to clean every week (no, not Kevin; the maid was from Puerto Rico). We could have it together.

We relished life and lived it with abandon.

In retrospect, our working in the same office, our entertaining the same friends, our shared enjoyment of the BDSM Scene: these things cemented much of our togetherness. As long as we had them, we had each other.

He asked me once of children. I declined; my job, my hobbies, my fetishes would suffer. I said “no” — and he accepted that.

During the first several months of living together, he grew to wear women’s clothing at home. If he held a gaze at a dress in a store, it would soon be found in his closet. In the beginning, he was embarrassed and self-conscious. I found him in tears that first time he dressed in an evening gown and full feminine regalia. It was hardly a silly Little Bo Peep costume for fun. I consoled him and let him undress.

But days later, I suggested it again. As I said earlier, he would never deny me, and, accordingly, there came the day he dazzled me in Alaia goat suede high heels, a Ted Baker jamboree skater dress, diamond earrings from Mikimoto, sapphire rings from Alexis Bittar, and the most daring Korean makeup, all topped off by a beautifully complex French bun.

I wet myself looking at him.

“We must go out!” I breathlessly said. He seemed reluctant. I asked — sorry; I stated that I wanted us to go out. He nodded. I dressed. We went.

It was his first time.

“Kelly”, as I petfully christened her, looked magnificent.

I had showered him with the finest clothing and breathtaking jewelry. Heels? He had more than I had. Makeup? His grew to be better than mine. I splurged, yes, splurged on him relentlessly once I discovered his acceptance of my generosity and of his nascent femininity.

-----000-----

“How are you doing, Carrie?” she asked me.

“I’m stumbling along. You wouldn’t recognize the office anymore. So many minions have come and gone. The twenty-somethings keep churning through. They’re so eager and ambitious.”

I stared at my coffee.

“I pushed you too hard, Kelly. I take responsibility for that. I pushed you to the point that you couldn’t...” My voice trailed off.

“Don’t worry about that anymore. Everything turned out fine. Look at you, Carrie! You still have that energy and spirit that I admired. You were always marvelous. It just got to be a bit too much to resist, and you understand what I mean by that. I won’t say more about it.”

Kelly saw my pain and changed the subject.

“I got married a year after we parted. Ted. We adopted three children. I wanted to name them Tic, Tac, Toe, but Ted forbade me.” She laughed. “He’s a wonderful man, a loving father, a successful doctor. Dr. Ted Lanski. I treasure him above all others. We have a beautiful house in Connecticut. A weed free front lawn. I’m fine.”

I winced as he — she — spoke. A not dissimilar life could have been ours.

-----000-----

In my enthusiasm, I think it was in June all those years ago, I suggested birth control pills. My recollection is that Kevin swiftly swiveled his head and stared at me, mouth agape. Rather than a fight (which we never had; he was very agreeable), I put them on the granite counter and left them there: he could decide since I had permitted.

After my shower, they were gone.

I commenced delivering them to him on a special platter at breakfast. He didn’t bat an eyelash — yes, he had them done by then — and swallowed the pills. He knew what they were: they were what I wanted him to swallow.

And that was much as things remained in the bedroom. I’ll give you an example. I enrolled him in the pleasure of a perineum massage. I advanced him to a prostate massage. I graduated him into the rapture of pegging. Slowly. Tenderly. Gently. The tears he shed were, I was certain, tears of gratitude: “Thank you, Mistress. Thank you so much.” His ejaculations convinced me of his sincerity.

After the fifth pegging, it was with alacrity that I led him into the dungeon at The Study one play night and, upon my urging and with his consenting nod, pegged him soundly in front of my peers. They cheered. He groaned. Tears of pleasure surely. I exulted.

No, I never humiliated him in public; only in the presence of my understanding fellow Dommes would I do that. Eventually, so did they. They grew to like it for he never objected nor even used his caution safeword (I allowed him to pick it: “Chameleon” by the way).

I deliberated at length and sought the advice of Wanda before his first fellatio. “Sensitize him,” she said. “A small, easily throated dildo is perfect for that. It won’t strain him, but it will familiarize him. After the first time, he’ll be less inhibited.” Truer words were never spoken.

As I sat and watched him lose that virginity to another sub, I realized that my lovely man was no longer a man in the initial sense to which I had been attracted. He was beautiful in his dresses and skirts and capris. But he struck me as less handsome in his jacket and tie, his jeans, and his slacks.

Now I had seen him in his closest of feminine moments, pleasuring another man. It was an image I could not shake.

He had changed. I had changed him.

I led him by his leash to the car from The Study’s modest entrance. I said nothing. A part of me was angry at him for submitting so daintily. Another part of me — a small part of me — was relishing his gradual emasculation and the emergence of a new best friend, Kelly. I loved Kevin the man and saw him drifting away; I was increasingly drawn to Kelly.

When we got home, he (or she) showered, made me a tea, and said that he was off to bed. A perfunctory kiss and she was gone.

I felt that an unpleasant threshold had been crossed.

It had.

-----000-----

“Kelly, I never told because I never had the chance. I regret the hormones. I ought to have asked you far more clearly and directly. I irresponsibly assumed that you’d go along as you normally did.”

She looked at me with her carefree eyes.

“They helped me along, I can say now. It was the lack of input that I found most offsetting.” She sipped her coffee. Mine was already done. “In any event, they worked wonders on my figure!”

I nodded; she did look good.

“Are you still working?” I asked, wanting to change the topic.

“No. I retired. Ted works and pays the bills. We’re more than okay. The kids will have college money when they need it. There’s very little left on the mortgage. Two cars. We’re really good!”

Her cheer softened my regret. I took her at her word now, much as I had before.

-----000-----

“I love you. Never forget that: I love you.”

Those were the last words she said to me on that fateful Friday, November 30, so many years ago.

I dressed and went to the office. There was a meltdown in Chinese real estate and my acumen saved our clients several tens of millions of dollars. My boss was impressed: “There may be another promotion for you in this!” he thanked me.

Kelly and I had not crossed paths that day because of my business.

When I returned home, the lights were off. I turned them on. The apartment was too quiet. Kelly normally had the radio on, Top 40 music playing. The kitchen was immaculate; no dinner was ready. I called her name — I had been calling her “Kelly” for several weeks by now — but heard no reply.

I got a shock when I entered the bedroom. Her closet was empty, her dresser drawers open and empty, her bedside table empty.

Had she left me?

She had left me.

I was staggered. I called Wanda and explained the circumstances to her. Ours was a long conversation. “We’ll get Doris to cover your shift tonight. Tell me if you need anything,” she said before hanging up.

I spent the weekend calling and texting Kelly endlessly. No response. Not one.

On Monday at the office, I saw that the cubicle in which I had sat so often on its petite desk to chat with her had been cleared. Empty. “He phoned in on Friday and said that he quit,” the HR staff informed me.

Emptiness filled me. I reluctantly concluded that she — he — was forever gone. My sweet loving Kevin. My adorable companion Kelly. Both gone.

The process server appeared at the door to my office on Wednesday that week.

A lawsuit! Kevin Winston was suing me! The Statement of Claim listed several torts, including intentional affliction of mental harm, battery, conspiracy to commit battery, unlawful confinement, misappropriation of property, invasion of privacy, and such.

My head rolled. I felt nauseous. I asked my VP for the day off; he granted it. I went home and re-read the Claim a million times.

The Claim was for $4 million.

I punished myself with much reflection on my actions. I need not reiterate them; I told you the major lines earlier.

I came to see how he could have misperceived my actions. I struggled to identify any one instance in which he had taken the initiative and said, for instance, “I want a cock cage”. Never, I determined; it had always been me nudging, cajoling, or prodding him.

Me. It had been me.

“Good facts win cases,” corporate counsel always lectured us (twice a year: boring as hell). My dominant personality was known to all. But my Domme persona — if known to all — could ruin my career in investment banking instantly. I soon came to invite myself to the sorrowful conclusion that I was in fact responsible. Liable.

And exposed.

I decided that I now had to protect my career, regardless of the cost. Yes, I now owned many a nice toy and luxury; investment bankers tend to live well. But, at 31 years old now, I still had many good income years ahead of me. They had to be protected. “Mistress Carrie” of The Study for once would have to be utterly divisible from and completely subordinate to Carrie the investment banker.

Over several Pinot Grigios, I resolved to settle the dispute swiftly. I contacted a lawyer. I was candid with her.

“Your prospects are ruinous if this comes out,” she said, I mean Captain Obvious said. “There’s also the risk of punitive damages at trial if your ex- decides to pursue criminal charges too. And I contacted his lawyer. I tried to persuade them to pursue mediation; all of my approaches were peremptorily rebuffed.”

I groaned at the enormity of it all and instructed her to add the additional $1,000,000 that Kevin’s lawyer had proposed in his settlement offer in exchange for Kevin’s irrevocable forbearance of filing a criminal complaint and for a non-disclosure agreement. No discovery. No witness interviews. No examination-for-discovery. Just get it over with.

Risk $4 million in the law court and disaster in the public court of opinion?

No: simply settle for $5 million and obtain a silence befitting an abandoned cemetery.

The lawyers handled the paperwork. I paid the money. It was accomplished: a settlement.

Life moved on.

I remember the subsequent years of hollow emotions, of my silent apartment, of my vacant life. I missed her deeply and, frankly, never truly recovered from my loss. I doubted that I would ever marry. My biological clock ticked furiously but vainly; I never again met anyone good enough to rewind it. Despite my frenetic energy at the bank, I was simply a living shell of a woman.

My enthusiasm for Domme work waned on and off but I eventually regained some footing there. Wanda helped me tremendously but also steered me away from certain customers. “It’s better for you this way,” she wisely advised.

My customers became more monotonous: dull, overweight husbands whose marriages were as dull as themselves and their dull, overweight wives. I confess to unleashing several of my demons on many of them. Yet I knew I was just punishing myself.

After the settlement, I never saw Kevin, or now Kelly, again.

Until a decade later in aisle 9.

-----000-----

I stared at Kelly.

Long gone was the adorable sissy, the budding transwoman whom I had incrementally created freehand. Kelly appeared now to be thoroughly woman from head to toe.

“I miss you still, despite the years and my misguided actions.” I wanted to cry.

She breezily laughed my sorrow aside.

“Carrie, you don’t know just how much you meant to me,” she generously replied. “You were very much my dream woman, the very sort of woman I so long pursued. I have nothing but the fondest memories of you. I shall treasure them always. You gave me so much!”

The double-entendre bit.

She glanced at her watch. “Gotta go!”

She stood, beckoned a waitress, and put a finger under my chin to lift it.

She kissed me as Kevin once had — passionately.

The moment lingered.

She broke our kiss and told the waitress, “One bill,” and pointed at me.

“You’ll pay for it, right?” Her final smile.

Or a smirk?

I too smiled and nodded.

“Good-bye, Carrie.”

“Good-bye, Kelly.”

She left.

-----000-----

I’d like to say, “that was that”, but it wasn’t.

A year later, I was in San Fran for a conference on Chinese junk-bond-based derivatives. I knew all about them, but it was a networking opportunity. I bantered back and forth with my Hong Kong and Shanghai counterparts. A sexist bunch they were; I would have loved to have ruthlessly entertained them in the dungeon at The Study.

The conference over, I meandered my way through the city to a familiar spot: Sylvia’s Hideaway, a fetish club. I had passed through its doors several times over the years. A friendly crowd of Dommes were having a social, and via my Domme network had been invited to join them.

Anna greeted me with open arms. We sat at a round table and were served delightful canapes and spritzers. San Fran is so hospitable! Anna introduced me to several local Dommes and we discussed with enthusiasm politics, fetishes, women’s soccer, and various and sundry other topics.

We soon turned to other subjects, including one dear to our hearts: clients.

Nicole regaled us with the story of a mechanic who desired to be treated as a baby. Standard fare as far as I was concerned. Yet even my eyes watered with laughter as I heard his physical description: six-eight, over 250 pounds, hairy as an ape! What an image!

Denise recounted her experiences with a virginal man whose unnatural inclination was to masturbate in front of dominant women. Again, I had seen the same back East and giggled at her story of his sperm dripping from a Christmas tree decoration onto a host’s pet cat. Fitting that his sperm finally found a pussy!

Others provided equal levity. We were Dommes and had the world (of men and other subs) at our fingertips.

“Your turn, Gail!” I said.

She demurely smiled and shook her head. The others stopped being so animated. I sensed that I had made some faux pas of some sort. I liked Gail; her countenance was pleasing and her wit sharp and cutting. Yet she remained subdued.

“Okay then: how about you Tonya?” I quickly said to dispel the unease.

Tonya told her story. We laughed. And the joy of the affair was renewed.

As we bade our farewells, I made a point to see Gail and to express my regret for having unknowingly discomforted her. “May I buy you a coffee?” I asked to soothe any hard feelings.

-----000-----

We sat at a café near the Bay. I thought I heard whales singing but I may have been wrong. It was a sunny, warm day; the air held the fragrance of the sea.

“I can’t laugh at these stories too much anymore,” she said. “I enjoy my work but I’m far more careful now than I had been in the past. I’m also much more sensitive to reading a client than I had been.”

I touched her hand to encourage her to continue.

“I fell in love with a client. A little swishy shemale from the East Coast. He or she was disarmingly charming, very pleasing, and quite submissive. His name was so unswishy: Victor. She liked being flogged. She had requested me by name. After our first session, I discovered that she was a newly minted junior secretary in the law firm at which I work. We have about two hundred people on staff. No wonder I had never noticed her before.”

I listened attentively.

“Anyway, my great dividing line between my legal workplace and Sylvia’s Hideaway got blurry and disintegrated vis-à-vis my little sub. We dated between our sessions. I liked her — a lot. We lived together for a year or so. That little sissy doted on me and let me take charge. She never said that she wanted anything. She just agreed to everything I ever said.”

I listened very attentively.

She sipped her cappuccino and continued:

“I look back and recognize that I pushed her too far. SRS? Yes, I suggested that to her. I truly thought she wanted it. This is San Fran; things like that can be expedited if you know the right people. Do you know how many doctors see ME to explore their prostate? I know doctors and spoke to one who agreed to meet Vicki and—”

“You said, ‘Vicki’? Victor became Vicki?” I interrupted her — rudely.

Gail shot me a puzzled and irritated look.

“Yes. ‘Vicki’. That was the name I gave her. As I was saying,” she sternly said (once a Domme, always a Domme; even with other Dommes (except with Wanda and Sylvia of course; they’re top Dommes)), “she’d been on hormones and living as a woman for a couple of years. At least that’s what she told me. So, I set her up with Doctor Clogg who performed the SRS.”

I stared at her.

“After her recovery — and I assure you that I had arranged the best care for her — she one day up and left. She took everything I had ever given her: the Cartiers, all those LouBoutins and Weitzmans, the Versaces and Bottega Venettas: everything. I spoiled her rotten and she disappeared.”

I anxiously signaled to the waiter, a cute little boy probably destined to be an unhappy bottom to a Karen in a drab suburb.

“A Pinot Grigio for me, please. Immediately too,” I ordered. “I hope you don’t need a drink, but I fear you will want one very shortly. What would you like, Gail?”

She shrugged her head and said, “The same, please.”

I was impressed; the waiter brought the drinks in under a minute.

I gulped mine.

“Gail, as a Domme, I’ve seen my fair share of the human condition. I’ve delivered a great deal of pleasurable pain and delight to many people. And outside that work, I’ve had my ups and downs. And a few years ago, one particularly messy down with a person I loved. Please tell me how it ended.”

Gail sipped her Pinot.

“Lawyers. From another firm. My firm would’ve fired me on the spot and lodged a complaint with the law association. I faced ruin. I settled and—”

“—And you paid the extra money demanded so that no criminal charges would ever be brought, and you signed a non-disclosure agreement? How much? Four? Five million?”

Gail gasped and stared at me.

I flung my head back and stared at the ceiling in disbelief. I reached into my purse for my phone. I held a finger up to require silence of Gail (I’m a Domme; that’s what we do).

I searched and almost immediately found what Gail needed to see. I turned the phone toward her.

“Kevin Winston,” I stated acidly, “whom I transformed into Kelly Winston and paid millions in a settlement for it.”

It is impossible to describe the astonishment on Gail’s face.

She hastily rummaged through her purse and took out her phone. Her eyes were wide as she swiped and swiped and swiped. She turned her phone towards me.

I grimly knew that I would not be astonished.

“Vicki Menton,” she stated matter-of-factly.

We stared in horror at the two pictures and at each other as only twins could.

We had been topped by a bottom.

By the same bottom:

By Kevin.

By Kelly.

By Victor.

By Vicki.

By the same mysterious person whose true identity would forever remain unknown to us.

END

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2021