Catherine The Matriarch

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Enthrallment

The sensation of being under Catherine the Great’s domination, down to the clothes I wore, vibrated through me, blended with the indelible mental image of her arrogant, aristocratic face, and pumped the first throbs of renewed life into my just-spent c**k. To put the situation in basic English, Empress Catherine had me by the balls, and I wanted her to squeeze tight.

My terrific awe for Her Majesty placed her clothes in a different perspective. Sure, she forced me to wear her clothes to dominate me, perhaps humiliate me. But her clothes were also fetishes, filled with the magic of her power. God only knows what “fetish” means on the Internet these days, but I’ve done some homework, and the original fetish was an object that carried power, like a voodoo doll. So, when I picked up Mrs. Roman’s stockings and rubbed them against my cheeks, I could feel her energy and see the beauty of her legs. I spread her dress across my chest and pressed it to me with my hands, as if I were hugging Mrs. Roman. I picked up her girdle, black and shiny like her hair, and buried my face in it. Raising my face, as if Mrs. Roman were a heavenly deity instead of an earthly goddess, I proclaimed, “I am yours. Take me, keep me, use me.” The impromptu ritual reminded me vaguely of saying grace over a meal.

And then I began the “meal”, a sensory feast. I stepped into her girdle. The tight, stretchy open-bottom foundation reminded me of a woman’s p***y. And I felt like a giant c**k sliding inside. The sensual feel of elastic squeezing my upper thighs, belly, and ass massaged me into budding arousal. I pulled the girdle up past my crotch, allowing my c**k to stand erect.

Remembering Catherine’s warning about accidents, I took a condom from the pack and slid it on. At the thought of being inside Catherine’s girdle, I longed to jerk off, but I focused on her hose. When I rolled the first stocking up my leg, I could almost ejaculate without touching my c**k. The ticklish, creepy encroachment of the second stocking up my leg intensified my rush. By the time I hooked the garters on her stockings, I was beside myself with lust.

But I concentrated long enough to slip into her dress. I pulled it over my head and tried to let the shiny material shimmer down. It needed coaxing. The material sent tingles through my body. Even though my waist curved out and my hips were flat—in contrast to Catherine’s slim waist and gracefully curved hips—even my body looked better in the glimmering material.

I reached for my c**k but knew I must finish dressing first. Trying in vain to step into her shoes, I picked them up and walked over to the couch facing the mirror. Sitting down, I managed to squeeze my feet into her pumps. I have read that some women wear shoes too tight just to stay aroused. It worked for me! When I stood up, I felt the elevation of her heels tighten my leg muscles and heighten the erotic power coursing through me, from my Goddess’s shoes to my groin.

“Pumps,” I specified aloud—and, turning my back to the mirror, started to pump myself. I couldn’t resist any longer. Catherine the Great’s clothes were literally vestiges of her essence. Glancing over my shoulder at the mirror, I realized not even a wig and industrial-strength makeup would make me pretty, so I focused on the vision of a shiny-clad butt bobbing to the rhythm of an unseen hand working under a dress and girdle. The reflection looked like a woman fingering herself—lousy shape, but what a sexy dress! I felt giddy with lust. The surge kept escalating until the magic of Her Majesty rushed from her clothes through me and shot c*m repeatedly into the condom she had given me.

Mrs. Roman swung open the door while I was squeezing out the last dribble of jism. “Even my clothes can enslave you, Princess.” Her voice was thick and her face flushed. She wore a long-sleeved, highly-polished black latex mini-dress with black, calf-length high-heeled boots. Her left hand, wrapped in a short, black latex glove, held her right glove. Her naked right hand glistened.

I fell on my knees, face down. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I couldn’t resist your clothes.”

She walked over and stood before me, patting me on the head. Her fingers felt damp. “You are weak, Princess, but obedient. You may wear my clothes anytime I tell you to.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty!” Her bitchy way of voicing a command like a favor sent a perverse chill of delight through me. Her figurative grip on my testicles was not enough; she wanted to twist them, too. And I craved her touch, even symbolically, so much I encouraged her.

Without a word, she held out a cardboard box that had contained sanitary napkins. I slipped off my condom and dropped it into the box. “Give me a kiss, Princess.” She turned her back to me, bent over slightly, and presented her ass for my lips. When I started to peel up the hem of her dress, she said, “You can do that after dinner. For now, just show me that you know your place.”

I pressed my mouth against the slick latex covering her rump and stuck my tongue into the material as far as it would go.

“Oh, Princess! I am so pleased with you!”

I stood up. “I’m glad you found me.”

She turned and led the way up the steps. Her ass, rippling beautifully in polished black latex, pulled me along as forcefully as if she had snapped a leash on my c**k. “You have a fabulous body, and that dress really shows it off,” I said in awe.

“It’s called a governess dress. I ordered it from The Baroness in New York.” After separate visits to the restroom, we sat down to an elaborate dinner. Multiple courses gave us ample time to talk. Martin began by serving us large salads with Russian dressing. Wearing a natty tuxedo and bow tie, he acted as if everything were normal, although I was sitting there in drag. The sun cast long shadows across the room. An immense feeling of belonging overcame me—belonging in that house, at that time, and most of all, being owned unconditionally by Catherine the Great. I had found my role, and it exhilarated me—if I could remain a banker.

“How do you like my Little Hermitage?”

“Little?!”

“Compared to the Hermitage in St. Petersburg, this house is tiny!” She unfolded her napkin, as if transitioning to another subject. She smiled wickedly. “I’ve been sizing you up for some time. Your career speaks for itself, and the Web sites you visit reveal the kind of woman it takes to drive you to success.”

“You can’t judge—”

“But I can. I hired a computer specialist to set up several sites to snare you. When you visited Whip-Off Queen, she put a cookie on your computer. We’re tracking your browsing habits. You must have visited Other World Kingdom a thousand times. Not her site, but what a lovely desire: to have a woman crush you under her heel! I am thrilled to do just that!”

Although she was inflaming me again, I felt the need to offer token resistance. “You’re blowing my curiosity out of proportion.”

“When you were married,” Mrs. Roman continued, “your wife didn’t understand that you wanted her to dominate you.” Before I could protest, she put her gloved right hand—she wore both gloves now—on mine. “Maybe you didn’t realize it, either.”

“No, I thought dominant women were just a fantasy.”

“And Suki Swisher—her name sounds like intercourse!—is too foolish to realize what a goldmine you are. If she would just discipline you, both of you would make small fortunes. And Suki would steal yours if she knew how to exploit you.”

“Don’t be so cynical.”

Mrs. Roman took the roll off my bread plate, and I passed her the butter.

“See?” she said triumphantly. “Peter, my late husband, was like that. He gave all the orders at the bank. But I made all the decisions, and we both prospered. I rewarded him in the bedroom. I ruled him absolutely and mercilessly. To his dying day,” she dabbed the corner of her eye with her napkin, “he thanked me.”

She stood up and paced in a small circle. Her brown-black eyes pierced mine. “You said I could have been Catherine the Great. Well, I’m more Russian than she was. She was born in Prussia, you know. My grandparents were Petrovs, born in St. Petersburg. My husband’s grandparents, born in Moscow, were Romanovs—not the royal family. Our families fled to America during the Russian Revolution. Came through Ellis Island. During the 1920s Red Scare, our grandparents changed their names to Peters and Roman, respectively, and moved from New York City to my hometown. That’s where Peter and I met. Now, tell me more about yourself.”

She sat down, propped her elbows on the table, and rested her chin in her cupped hands. Her gloved fingers, curved slightly to touch her cheeks, enhanced her magnetism.

Martin materialized quietly to remove our salad plates and place medium bowls of borscht before us. I sipped my water while Martin withdrew unobtrusively. “My bio is dull compared to yours. I was born in Pittsburgh—just like William Powell, Bill Cullen, Barbara Feldon, and Jeff Goldblum, to name a few. They went on to bigger things.”

She didn’t smile at my attempted modesty but merely nodded, as if my remarks merely confirmed what she already knew. “Continue,” she said.

“My dad had enough sense to go into insurance before the steel industry evaporated. Wanted me to join him. But his clientele dwindled when jobs migrated south from the Rust Belt. Like a lot of kids in Western Pennsylvania, I played high school football. Guys like Joe Namath, Johnny Unitas, Joe Montana, Dan Marino, and Jim Kelly…”

“All from Western Pennsylvania?”

“A few quarterbacks from the Pittsburgh area. I wanted to earn a scholarship to Pitt.”

“As a quarterback?”

“Tight end. Physical contact with an occasional pass thrown my way. Guts and glory rolled into one position.”

She squinted for a moment, trying to remember where she had heard “tight end”. With a droll smile, she asked, “A tight end, like the character in The World According to Garp?”

I took my turn thumbing through my mental Rolodex. “Hell no! I’m happy as a man, thank you!”

“Now, Princess, my little tight end. I’ll get physical with you! Have you read… Garp?”

“Saw the movie.”

“You never made it to Pitt,” she noted, “or you lied on your resume.”

“Tore up my knee. ACL. Heck, Pitt didn’t want me. So I got an academic scholarship to Carnegie Mellon. No stadium to play ‘What-If’ every football Saturday.”

“But you still love your Pitt Panthers and Pittsburgh Steelers.”

I grinned sheepishly. How’d she know so much about me? “I studied business at Carnegie Mellon. Thought about investment banking. High risk, high reward. Then I got an internship with Mellon Bank and decided commercial lending would be safer.”

She peered at me intently. “But you still seek risks. That’s why you’re here.”

“Yes. And I’d still like to try investment banking. But when Federal National offered me a job, I snapped it up. Got an MBA with evening courses in my ‘spare time’. Federal National sent me to a smaller city for some seasoning, and here I am.”

“Don’t be all business. What are your personal desires?”

“You’re my personal desire. Let’s talk about you.”

Abruptly, she sprang up and stood inches from me before I could react. “You want me to force it out of you, don’t you?” She stroked my cheek softly, teasingly—and suddenly, I did want her to coerce me, to demonstrate her power and my exquisite subjugation.

She swiftly returned to her seat. “Eat your soup. You’ll need strength.” When I resumed eating, she observed, “You’re right about me. I will be Catherine the Great with Savings and Trust Bank and the county we live in. But the customers and stockholders aren’t ready for an empress.”

I sipped my water. “Where do I fit in?”

“You’ll be my wife.”

“You mean husband.”

“No, wife. You’ll do all the work while I take all the credit.” She pulled her gloves tighter, and the shiny second-skin covering her hands transfixed me. She seemed poised to slap me. “Wives cater to their husbands—in the bedroom and the boardroom. Do that for me.”

“You want me to wuss out?”

She glared at me. “Most wives are stronger than their husbands in the important ways—dealing with adversity, managing families,” she paused before adding, “running banks.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, remembering my mother. “You’re right.” I was genuinely contrite.

“Being my wife is not a matter of masculinity or femininity. In fact, be extremely virile with our clients, customers, and employees. But when you get home, your ass is mine. Total surrender. I’ll make you enjoy it! Then, when you run the bank for me, unleash your pent-up aggressions. Take charge. Do unto others as I have done to you.”

I spooned down the borscht, nourishing myself with the soup and her words. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“You will remain as my guest until you agree to be my wife.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Of course not! You may leave anytime I let you. We’ll sign prenuptial agreements so that I get to keep everything that’s mine. Then, after we’re married, I’ll make you president and CEO of the bank—I mean, the board will elect you after I persuade them—and I’ll be chairman. You’ll be richer than you ever dreamed.”

“My dreams are big. But what about you?”

“I’ll get by.”

“Meaning?”

She stood up again, walked over, and pressed my face into her bosom. “I’ll have all of my property and most of yours. That’s how it has to be.”

I stirred in mild protest, but she pressed my face deeper into the latex covering her breasts and pressed down on my shoulders with her elbows.

And so she enthralled me—in the original sense of enslaving me, and in the romantic sense of charming me. Calling someone a “love slave” may be clichéd, but that’s exactly what I was to her. The real beauty and smell and taste of Catherine the Great sliced through all of the fantasy dominatrices I had sought on the Internet. Suki Swisher’s subtle sexuality, also real, fell far short of Goddess Catherine’s majesty. But Mrs. Roman’s very real demands to have her way all the time also sliced through my fantasies—and my self-esteem. Catherine the Great made me desire her more than any other woman; the reality of giving up everything, however, made me balk.

Sensing my mood, she returned to her seat. “We’ll discuss this after dinner.”

Martin returned to clear our soup bowls and serve us plates with a generous portion of meat, a smaller helping of cabbage, and a token serving of boiled potatoes mixed with carrots.

“Beef?” I asked.

“Venison.”

And so the meal continued, with each course outdoing the previous one, reaching its pinnacle with servings from an elaborate cake. “Whose wedding?” I joked.

“Need you ask?” She was serious.

We devoured our dessert as if we had eaten nothing else.

“Martin,” she said, “we shall retire to the study. Please bring us some vodka.” After he retreated, Catherine the Great turned to me. “Shall we?”

In a parody of manners, I presented her my arm, and she took me in tow to her study. The sun had set a good hour earlier, leaving the room in darkness despite the French doors on the west side. Mrs. Roman turned on two lamps at opposite ends of a plush, leather couch. When she sat down, the lamp at her end of the couch played intriguing shadows on her face.

I sat at the opposite end to gaze at her from head to toe. “Your beauty is excruciating,” I confessed. “I can’t resist staring at you, but I realize I’ll have to pay dearly for the privilege!”

“Of course!” she seethed. “So throw yourself on my mercy. Quit trying to fight it.”

“Easy for you to say,” I muttered, immediately regretting my retort.

Her eyes flashed. Anger animated her features and made her more beautiful than ever.

Martin, for the first time, entered off cue. Mrs. Roman glared at him in utter contempt. Martin placed his tray, containing two glasses and a crystal decanter of vodka, on the huge desk near my end of the couch.

Mrs. Roman rose majestically. “Martin, turn on the VCR while I go to my room.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“And you,” she pointed at me, “stay right where you are.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Martin shook his head without comment as he turned on the VCR and TV in a recess, almost a small alcove, at the east side of the room. He muted the TV.

“What?” I asked.

“Why didn’t you do what she said? Fix yourself a drink,” he added. “You’ll need it.”

I downed two half-glasses of vodka before Catherine the Great regally marched in with a video cassette in her hand. “You may go,” she dismissed Martin in a gentle voice. Her voice grated when she addressed me. “Come sit at my feet, you slut!”

She sat in a large chair facing the TV. I placed her drink on the table beside her, pushed aside the ottoman, and got on all fours facing the TV, in front of her. Propping her feet on my back, she dug in the heels of her boots a few times to exert her dominance—and arouse me.

The moment the video started, I almost threw up. There I was on screen, rubbing Mrs. Roman’s stockings against my cheeks, hugging her dress, and sticking my face in her girdle! Squeezing into her girdle—so erotic while I was doing it!—looked clumsy and comical on tape. Slipping into her stockings had felt elegant enough to savor slowly; the recorded process seemed to display primitive motor skills. And jerking off! If I watched someone else on tape, I would have laughed until I cried—especially at the deranged look on my face. But I was the fool in a spastic frenzy on the screen. No mistake about it. I trembled while my stomach twisted in knots.

“You may destroy the tape if you wish,” Catherine the Great said magnanimously.

“Oh, thank you!” I gushed. I turned to grab her feet and literally become a boot-lick.

“Martin has made about five copies. That’s one of them.”

I propped her feet on my shoulders and pressed my cheek against her calf. “You win.”

“Really?” she asked sarcastically. “Sign the pre-nuptial agreements Martin has drawn up.”

“Martin?”

“He’s an attorney. Had a promising career ahead of him, until I ... took him in hand.” Her rich laugh intimated the certainty of her trap. “Martin!” she called. I moved her feet from my shoulders to the floor, and she pointedly stepped on my hand—just another reminder of her superiority and a test of my patience.

We joined Martin at the desk, where he witnessed the signatures and made sure all of the papers were in order before putting them in a wall safe over the fireplace. Catherine the Great dismissed him again.

“Princess,” she said after Martin left, “take off all of the clothes I generously lent you. Bring me my whip beside the fireplace.” She sipped her drink while I stripped.

My c**k rose again while I walked over and picked up her three-foot whip. “Here, Your Majesty,” I bowed and then knelt when I handed her the whip.

“Do you know why I prefer you naked?”

Still kneeling, I raised my head to look into her eyes. Warmth crept into her expression. “Because I’m so vulnerable?” I asked.

“Yes,” she nodded, “but also because I like the naked truth. You can’t lie. Your little friend, at attention, says you really enjoy surrendering to my will. Now, move the ottoman in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the door.”

I crawled on all fours to position the ottoman just right.

“Don’t get up,” she said. “Peter used that mirror to inspect himself before he went to work each morning. Look in the mirror and watch me go to work on you, Princess. Spread your arms across the ottoman.” She placed her drink on a table beside the ottoman.

I obeyed, with a protest: “Is this any way to treat your future hus—er, wife?”

“Exactly, Princess. Look at me in the mirror when I talk to you. Keep your eyes on me. Your mind must bond my beauty with the pain I inflict on you. You can’t have one without the other.”

We made eye contact in the mirror, and her wicked leer hardened my c**k to its maximum. She handed me another condom, and I put it on.

“After your little rebellion,” she smirked, “should I marry you or ruin you? Your career, your love life, your finances—anything that matters to you. Which would I enjoy more? Perhaps marrying you and then ruining you. I’ll decide later. Right now, I’ll whip you severely. I know I’ll enjoy that!”

She cracked the whip in the air once for practice.