Bound to Me

Chapter 1: Mistress Juliette

With my arms crossed over my chest, I absentmindedly tapped my foot on the dungeon bathroom's floor. I threw a glance at the digital clock that hung on the far wall. Pursing my painted red lips, I considered whether enough time had passed. Anticipation always heightened a scene. There was something about making a sub wait for his punishment, and in turn his pleasure, that drove them wild.

I didn't have to look outside the bathroom door to know exactly what was going on in the dungeon. After ordering my sub to disrobe and assume the Display position, I knew the middle-aged man, or silver fox as some would refer to his handsome appearance, would be kneeling naked on the floor with his hands behind his back and his head bent. His body would be trembling ever so slightly as he waited for his Mistress to deliver what he so desperately needed.

When five minutes had passed, I knew it was time to make my entrance. I leaned into the light to give my appearance a final glance in the mirror. Decked in white from head to toe, I was quite the angelic vision but in leather. My corset dress hit mid-thigh, leaving just a small gap to where the stiletto-heeled white boots came. The front of the dress crisscrossed over my breasts, showing an ample amount of my C-cup cleavage. The dark chestnut-colored hair that usually flowed freely down my back was wrapped in a tight French braid with white ribbon interwoven into it.

Within the confines of the leather, I left my former self behind and transformed into Mistress Juliette. To some, white seemed like an odd choice for a dominatrix. Most people envisioned Dommes in the essential black or at least red. But from the first day I'd walked through the doors of Club 1740, I knew I needed a niche—something to make me stand out from the other ten women who worked there. After all, I was there to make money, not get off.

As an English major, I thought it only fitting to choose white—the color of innocence and purity. It made the perfect paradox for what I was there to do, which was certainly devoid of any innocence or purity. My job was to deliver pain and domination while also giving pleasure. Therefore, I was at times both an angel and a demon.

I couldn't help grinning at how my appearance had undergone quite the conversion in the past twenty-four hours. Last night in a flowing black robe, I'd marched into the packed convocation center of Kennesaw State University to the tune of Pomp and Circumstance. It was the furthest f*****g thing from a Domme you could imagine, unless you were role-playing a professor/student scene.

“Sophie Marie Jameson." When my name echoed off the speakers, the moment overwhelmed me, causing me to falter in my subdued black heels. I wasn't usually a sappy, over-sentimental person, but I found myself getting swept up in emotion. But then I'd pulled myself together and made my way across the stage. I extended my hand to shake the hand of the university's president.

“Congratulations," she said with a smile.

My trembling fingers clutched the diploma, and I finally managed to squeak a, “Thank you." I was too overcome to say much else. While it might've been cliché, there had been a whole lot of sacrifice along with blood, sweat, and tears that had gone into getting my education. I was the first one in my family to get a college degree, let alone a graduate one.

When I got to the stage's stairs, I dared to look out at the crowd where I knew my dad and brother were. Although his neurologist had advised him against it, my father had insisted on attending. “Nothing could stop me from seeing my daughter get a graduate degree," he had said, immense pride reflecting on his face. Being wheelchair bound with Muscular Dystrophy had afforded him prime seating close to the stage. Of course, he had no idea where the money to buy his new power wheelchair had come from me. Considering he thought I waited tables, he would have questioned how the hell I could afford it. I led him to believe it had been donated.

When I caught my father's eye, the same expression of overwhelming pride was there again, but this time there were tears as well. Although I'd never been one to cry in public, I didn't try fighting the moisture that pooled in my eyes. Instead, I let it overflow and stream onto my cheeks. My vision had been blurry as I made my way down the stairs and back to my seat.

Now in the dungeon bathroom, I found myself once again fighting tears. Rolling my eyes with frustration, I muttered, “Get a f*****g grip, Soph." Throwing open the door, I found my sub just as I expected. The only sound in the room was the rise and fall of his breathing, and the distant bass from the dance floor upstairs. At the echo of my boot heels clicking across the tile, the sub's posture became slightly straighter. I walked around to stand in front of him. He kept his gaze respectfully on the floor.

Reaching out, I ran one of my blood red fingernails under his chin and tipped his head for him to look at me. “Good boy, Owen. Are you ready to begin?"

“Yes, Mistress Juliette."

Most people upon hearing my Domme name thought I'd chosen it from my love of Shakespeare. Instead, I figured if I was working in a club named after the birth year of Marquis de Sade, I should go with the name of one of his literary heroine's—or I guess I should say anti-heroines considering Juliette's depravity. “Then let's begin."

***

Tilting his head with an adoring smile, Owen said, “You always give me just what I need, Mistress."

“You're such a flatterer," I mused. I playfully smacked his cheek, signaling the end to the scene.

He then winked. “How do you think I became president of Atlanta's top law firm?"

“By licking boots?" I teased.

With a chuckle, he replied, “Well, I sure as hell didn't get it by just my good looks."

“Your usual?" I asked.

After he nodded, I clicked my boot heels across the dungeon floor as I made my way over to the mini fridge in the corner. I grabbed a bottle of cranberry juice for him and a water for me. Hydration was key after a scene and H2O was usually the preferred means, but just like with kink, each sub brought his or her own likes and dislikes into the dungeon.

Ever the obedient sub, Owen had gotten the antibacterial cleaner to ensure that the chair was disinfected for the next client. When he was finished, I handed him his juice. After unscrewing the bottle cap, Owen froze before bringing the drink to his lips.

At his forlorn expression, I held up my water-free hand. “Oh no, not you, too?"

Over the course of the last week, each one of my clients had become emotional on me. The worst was my six-foot-five professional wrestler who wept inconsolably as he almost smothered me in a bear hug. At the end of the day, the sentiment was pretty touching.

Owen shook his head as he took a long swig of his juice. “I can't help it. I think it finally hit me that this is our last session."

“You're going to be fine. You have test sessions lined up with Mistress Venus and Mistress Rain, right?"

“Yes."

“I'm sure you're going to find someone to take care of you."

“They won't be you."

I smiled. “No. But I'm sure they'll torture you just as well I do."

“We'll see," Owen replied skeptically.

Swatting him on the ass, I commanded. “Go get your shower."

He bowed his head obediently. “Yes, Mistress," he said, before disappearing into the bathroom. He needed to put his appearance back together before he went home to his third trophy wife. Owen was a good representation of the majority of my clients. They were professional men who had wives or girlfriends who weren't into the b**m lifestyle. They either gave permission for their men to take care of their needs, or they pretended not to know. Some men chose to keep their significant others truly in the dark. Most of my clients needed to be able to play during the week because they had to be free on weekends to be with their families. It worked out best for me as well because I needed my weekends free to go home to be with my dad.

With Owen occupying the bathroom, I used the dungeon mirror to touch up my makeup. It was truly ironic that without school, I would have never become a Domme, and without being a Domme, I would have never been able to afford to finish college, least of all go to graduate school. Everything changed for me five years ago in my second-year English class.

My professor, who must've been a closeted member of the b**m scene, had us read an excerpt from Marquis De Sade. The discussion got quite animated when debating whether Marquis was a literary genius or basically a sick f**k. “I'm not sure why anyone who was truly into b**m would embrace his work," I said.

My professor's bushy brows raised questioningly. “And why is that?"

“Because it supports the stereotype that there has to be something emotionally wrong with you to want pleasure from pain. Not to mention that his characters get off from depravity like rape and extreme torture."

“Well, I think you do have to be sick to wanna get off by getting tied up and beaten," a prissy girl in the front row stated.

“Everyone has different likes and desires. What you are alluding to is consensual where in Sade's stories it wasn't. We won't even talk about how it wasn't safe or sane."

A guy two rows ahead of me turned around and waggled his brows. “You can spank me any day, baby,"

“Dream on, douche bag," I had replied, which caused laughter to echo through the room.

When class had ended, a tall, lanky girl came up to me as I was packing away my laptop. “I really liked what you had to say."

“Calling that dickhead a douchebag or about Sade?"

She laughed. “I guess both."

“Well, you're welcome."

After glancing around, she asked, “Are you in the scene?"

“b**m?"

When she nodded, I replied, “Oh no. I'm not."

“Hmm, I could have sworn you were."

“Because I knew about safe, sane, and consensual? That was referenced in the literary criticism essay after the excerpt."

Her blonde brows rose in surprise. “You actually read that when it wasn't assigned?"

I laughed. “Yep. As a future English teacher, I kind of get off on that nerdy criticism stuff."

She grinned. “I see. Some get off on words, others BDSM."

“Totally." “If you don't have a class right now, you wanna get some coffee?"

Since I hadn't had a lot of time to make friends at school, I decided to take her up on the offer. “Sure."

“I'm Lindsay, by the way"

“Sophie."

Two cups of shitty student center coffee later and Lindsay revealed she was both a professional and lifestyle Domme. While I found the conversation enlightening considering you didn't find too many sexually-liberated people around our backwoods community college, I had no idea where it was about to lead.

“Have you ever thought about getting into the scene as a Domme?"

Waving my hands in front of me, I replied, “Oh no, it's not for me. Don't get me wrong. I like to give a good spanking and pull some hair, but I could never be into that full time."

“What about for a job?"

“Seriously?"

“The club where I work is always looking for professional Dommes—ones who aren't likely to let their emotions get in the way by being romantically involved with a sub. I think you'd be perfect."

My eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And just how would you know that from an hour-long conversation?"

“Because you didn't blink an eye when it came to putting a man twice your size in his place."

“Yeah, well, I hardly see how a verbal comeback qualifies me to beat the hell out of someone."

“As a Domme, you learn quickly how to read people. I can read you."

“And just what do you see besides an opinionated smart-ass?"

“You have way much more depth."

Crossing my arms over my chest, I said, “Do tell."

“I know you're a strong, independent woman who thrives on control in all facets of her life. You're most likely not in a relationship right now because men are always intimidated by your strength."

I stared at her in surprise. How the hell was it possible for her to know that? “You're starting to freak me out a little."

Lindsay laughed. “I told you I could read people." Her expression grew serious. “I also know you could really use the money."

“Have you been stalking me or something?"

“Besides the fact that you own a terribly outdated laptop, one of the folders you put in your bag was from Financial Aide." At what must've been my creeped-out expression, she held up her hand. “I know because I have the same folder. I'm here on the same grants that you are. Pretty soon they're going to run out. When they do, the money I make from being a Domme will enable me to finish school without having to take out a bunch of loans."

I eased back in my seat, weighted down by the intensity of the conversation. I was facing the same dilemma as Lindsay, except mine was direr. My father's MD had begun to worsen. While he'd been able to get around the farm on a cane, he'd declined so rapidly in the past few weeks that now he needed a walker. It wouldn't be long before he needed a wheelchair. The farm had long since been paid for, but taxes on fifty acres was enormous. The overseer we'd hired to help run the farm was also a drain. Even after all the cattle and some of the horses were sold, we would still come up short. I was a modern day Scarlett O'Hara facing the loss of my father's beloved Tara.

“It's true. I need the money, but I can't prostitute myself."

Lindsay surprised me by laughing. “Dommes don't have s*x with their clients."

“They don't?"

“No. Most scenes don't even call for you to touch a sub intimately to get them off. They'll do that all on their own…when you let them."

“How much could I make a session?"

“Depends on what you're willing to do. Edge play Dommes always make more."

“Like the medical s**t?"

“Yes. Also fire, blood, and breath play."

I shook my head furiously from side to side. “Hell no. I can't do any of that."

“Even if you stick with the basic stuff, you can make two to three hundred a session."

The last sip of coffee I'd taken spewed out onto the table. “For one session?"

Lindsay nodded. “With your looks and personality, it could easily become five hundred to a thousand."

“Damn."

“That's pretty much what I thought when I first started."

“But I'm clueless when it comes to all this s**t. The only thing I really know how to do with rope is hogtie a steer or corral a horse."

Lindsay's blue eyes widened. “You know about tying rope?"

“Yeah, I grew up on a cattle farm. I can tie just about every knot imaginable." I had no idea admitting that fact would be such a plus, but Lindsay was practically bouncing in her seat.

“If you know about rope, then you already have a leg up. Some men would cream their pants just at the thought of you hog-tying them."

Once again, all I could say was, “Damn."

Reaching in her purse, Lindsay pulled out a card. “Listen, I have another class coming up. Think about it, and if you decide it's something you want to do, give me a call. If not, I won't mention it again."

I took the card. “Mistress Layla?"

She grinned. “That's me."

“Okay, I'll think about it."

“I'm glad to hear it."

“No matter what, thanks for the opportunity."

“You're welcome." She slid her messenger bag, which was surely designer, onto her shoulder before leaving me at the table with my jangled thoughts. I don't know how long I sat there, turning her card over and over between my fingers.

After glancing at my phone, I realized two hours had passed by. I was going to have to haul ass to make it to my waitressing job. As I hurried to the parking garage, my mind continued to whirl with thoughts. When I got to my car, I groaned and threw my hands up. My front right tire was completely flat. I'd already moved the back tires to the front because I couldn't afford new ones.

I was so f****d. The first call I made wasn't to the local service station. It was to Lindsay.

A thumping bass filled my ears as she said, “This is Mistress Layla."

“Hey, it's Sophie." I hesitated a moment before saying, “When can I start?"