Catherine The Matriarch

Chapter Three-1

Chapter Three

Her Whip Hand

The first lash of her whip hurt like hell—much more than I expected. Looking at mistress sites on the Internet always stimulated me through my eyes—the whip of the dominatrix symbolized her authority—and the visual thrill put me in a submissive mind-set before rushing down to my groin. Then I’d take care of my groin. I know that sounds repulsive, but until I met Catherine the Great, I couldn’t find a real woman to punish me. Catherine the Great also gave me visual, symbolic stimulation by letting me watch her glee in the mirror while she imposed her will on me. But I never imagined the pain she so obviously delighted in inflicting on me. Admiring her in the mirror and simultaneously feeling the sting of her wrath immediately achieved the effect she desired: If she enjoyed hurting me, I craved her abuse—just to watch her ecstasy.

Her expertise revealed extensive practice. Her strokes picked up a rhythm that, incredibly, grew faster! I lost track of time, the number of lashes, and nearly everything else. The constants of our bond prevailed—her body, writhing sensually in shiny black latex with each lash—the cruel, fierce beauty of her face: her piercing eyes, with just a hint of slant, her aristocratic cheeks, her lips forming an O, as if on the constant verge of orgasm—and the mounting, throbbing pain, so intense I wanted to c*m. She artistically whipped me into maximum arousal.

When she wound up for a dramatic, unbelievably strong lash, I thought this last blow would climax her performance. But, still shuddering from her denouement, I watched, transfixed, while she seized her real climax. Quickly stripping off her right glove, she plunged her hand up her dress and rapidly brought herself to orgasm.

She slinked over to the ottoman, wearing the exquisite expression of a self-satisfied lady, and sat on the edge beside me.

“So that’s why your hand was wet before,” I realized.

“Think of it as my ‘whip hand’—meaning I’m in control.” She held out her moist hand in front of my mouth. “Go ahead,” she coaxed, “and then I’ll take care of you.”

Anticipating her ultimate treat, I eagerly lapped her hand. “How’s that?” I asked after the last lick.

“Okay,” she said, wiggling her glove back on. “Turn over and put the back of your head on the ottoman,” she said. After I complied, she knelt beside me and began to stroke my c**k with her gloved hand—sexier than tossing me off bare-handed, but...

“Oh ...” I said slowly.

“I told you it was the whip hand,” she winked. “I’m whipping you off. But don’t worry. I’ll screw you like you’ve never been screwed before.”

“Really?!”

“Just watch. If you can.” Abruptly, she rose with her back to me, straddled my head, and sat on my face, leaning forward so that most of the contact was with her v****a and not her ass.

I tried to thank her but couldn’t speak. Her thighs, firmly pinning down my shoulders and upper arms, prevented me from moving. When she leaned forward farther and resumed stroking me—the second time she whipped me that evening—I settled resignedly for m**********n instead of intercourse. She knew exactly how to manipulate me. I heard the tinkle of ice in a glass and then felt her left hand press frozen cubes against my scrotum while her right hand continued jerking. The friction of her gloved hand heated my c**k luxuriously, and the contrasting cold around my testicles propelled me toward ejaculation much sooner than I wanted.

With impeccable timing, she leaned back slightly, smothering my face with her rump and v****a, and said, “Call Grey Templeton tomorrow. You’re resigning from Federal National.”

I struggled to speak. She pressed down so hard I couldn’t breathe. Even if I freed myself, her hard-pumping hand lured me away from my last hope of resistance.

She calmly said, “I interpret your silence as ‘Yes.’ If not, I’ll call him.”

Her autocratic pronouncement triggered my climax. She expertly drained my c*m and energy.

Swinging her left leg back over my head, she finally rose from my face and stood beside me. She squeezed off the condom and dropped it on my chest. “I told you I’d screw you like you’ve never been screwed before. Get dressed, Princess.”

Holding the used condom in my left hand, I picked up her clothes with my right and stacked them on the ottoman. Then I put the condom on top of her girdle and decided to wear Catherine’s dress by itself. By the time I slipped it on, she presented me with the notorious sanitary napkin box again. Depositing the used condom, I groused, “That gets old.”

Without a word, she returned to the fireplace and picked up her whip. Walking back to me, she commanded, “Kneel with your back to me and bow your head to the floor.” After I obeyed, she pulled the skirt of the dress up and administered three quick, hard lashes on my exposed rear end. “And here’s for not dressing up for me.” She whacked me three more times. “When I lend you clothes, wear all of them.”

The pain, on top of my previous beating, caused my eyes to tear.

“What do you say, Princess?”

“Thank you for disciplining me. I am sorry I disobeyed you.”

“Look at me when you speak to me!” She lashed me with the whip again.

I stood and faced her.

She peered at me intently. “Are you crying, Princess?”

“No—I mean, yes, Your Majesty. I really want to be your wife. I crave it so much I can’t control my emotions. Please take me!”

Even after she physically sat on my face, I could make Her Majesty smile by verbally kissing her ass. “Be a good girl and we’ll see,” she winked. “Now, put on your girdle and stockings. It’s unladylike to go without underwear. And your shoes, too.”

This time squirming into my goddess’s girdle hurt because of the welts on my behind. Drained of s****l energy, I found no joy in sliding her stockings up my legs and hooking them onto garters. And when I squeezed into her shoes, the tightness irritated me without arousing me. “How do I look?” I asked dutifully.

She pinched me on the cheek. “Precious. Now, come join me while I snack.” Still carrying her whip, she led the way to the kitchen. Martin had laid out a small tray of caviar and crackers, a chilled bottle of champagne, and two glasses. Catherine the Great sat down, placed her coiled whip on the table, and gestured for me to be seated. “Show me how you spread caviar on a cracker.”

I picked up a cracker and applied a thick layer of the rich caviar.

“Perfect,” she said, snatching the cracker and putting it to her mouth. She took a generous bite and chewed it slowly, sensually.

“May I—”

“Yes, you may have all the champagne you want.” She poured a glass and slid it in front of me. “Watch me eat, and I’ll watch you get drunk.” She chewed thoroughly. Her decadent expression displayed more joy in tasting caviar than she had shown during s*x with me.

“Please. I’m hungry.”

“You can eat after I’ve finished the caviar and crackers.”

“Eat what?” I asked, exasperated.

She stood up, turned her back to me, bent over, and patted her beautiful derriere. “Drink up!” she laughed, sitting down again.

Even then, Catherine the Great was irresistible. I was addicted to her. Besides, if I miraculously broke her spell, she’d humiliate me with the video to regain the whip hand. I realized I’ll have to draw the line somewhere and tell her, No, I will not do that. I don’t care who sees that video!

Meanwhile, I downed my glass of champagne and poured another.

“Martin,” Her Majesty called. He appeared at the swinging door between the kitchen and the dining room. “Before you turn in, Martin, please bring our guest more vodka. A bottle, no decanter. Princess insists on being a slut instead of a lady.”

When Martin retreated, I noticed tightness in his eyes, signifying anger. He wouldn’t look at me when he returned and placed the vodka on the table. To Mrs. Roman, he said politely, “If there’s nothing else, madam, I shall retire.” He glided out quietly.

“Thank you, Martin.” She turned to me. “You may drink all of the champagne first, or all of the vodka. Or mix them. I don’t know which method is most lethal,” she confessed. “But I will intoxicate you thoroughly and quickly. You shall have the biggest hangover in history.” She uncorked the vodka bottle and nudged it in front of me. “Drink,” she said.

I chugged a couple of swallows—liquid flames roaring down my throat. “You don’t need alcohol to intoxicate me,” I said, my head swimming. “Being with you makes me high.”

“That’s sweet, but drink up. I will totally incapacitate you.”

Even that thought aroused me: getting wasted on Catherine the Great’s whim. She would inflict severe cruelty on me, and my last remnants of self-defense would be stifled. I guzzled vodka and champagne until most of the events became a blur to me. But I do recall that, once my speech was thoroughly slurred and my movements wildly erratic, my irresistible tormentor handed me part of a cracker with caviar from which she had taken a large bite.

“Thank you!” I went to my knees, hardly able to hold the precious food.

She kicked it out of my hands and laughed derisively.

I crawled toward the cracker smeared with caviar, but she overtook me and dug the heel of her boot into the top of my outstretched hand. Lying prostrate at her feet, despite my buzz, I felt blasted by her power—and loved the sensation! When she stepped on the cracker with her booted foot, even in my near-stupor, I cringed at the waste of food. I needn’t have worried.

Sitting on the tile floor, she raised her boot to me. The caviar attached the cracker to the sole of her boot. “Eat!” she demanded. I reached for the cracker on her boot. “Don’t touch it!”

And so I knelt on my hands and knees and tried to get my teeth into the cracker while she playfully swung her boot around to taunt and tease me into making a complete fool of myself. When I finally flicked the cracker off her boot with my tongue, I bowed, as if bobbing for an apple, still fearing her admonition not to touch it. Just as my lips made contact, I felt the heel of her boot on the back of my neck, slowly but firmly pressing my face into the sticky cracker. Apparently tiring of her sport, she said, “Lick the caviar off my boot, and I’ll feed you the rest of the cracker.” She picked up the cracker, walked back to her chair, and sat down.

Sitting at her feet, I cleaned her boot thoroughly, continuing to lap away long after the caviar was gone, glancing up occasionally into the cruel beauty of her face to reinforce my feelings. “You’re humiliating me thoroughly,” I said, “but I can’t get enough! Not because of your punishment, but because it’s coming from you!”

Eating from her hands, further subservience, solidified my bondage to her. Totally abdicating to Catherine the Great gave me the greatest rush I’ve ever had, or will ever have, in my life.

When she handed me the vodka bottle, she commanded, “Drink up!” and reached for her whip. I took several healthy belts and meekly got on my hands and knees to absorb the punishment that she thrilled in delivering. I wondered if she intended for the alcohol to anesthetize me so that I could endure more pain. But I concluded that she intended to tranquilize me, to destroy my resistance. When I finally, clumsily raised my hand in self defense during one of my numerous whippings that night, Catherine the Great tossed aside her whip and began slapping, punching, and kicking me—further igniting the passion of her savagery—for both of us.

She’d beat or whip me until she was too exhausted to continue. Then she’d ask, “Had enough?” And I’d shake my head, No. After each performance, she’d peel up the skirt of her latex dress and finger herself to orgasm while placing her right boot in my face or on my throat.

Through the alcoholic haze, I vaguely remember arriving at her room, soaking in a bubble bath, and going to bed with her. Although thoroughly inebriated, I found her ultimate edict too repulsive: She commanded me to lick her anus while she lay on her side and diddled herself. I came so close—blush—because I was drunk with champagne, vodka, and Catherine the Great’s power. Inches away, I stopped. Despite my previous bravado about kissing her rump, I couldn’t actually go through with it. I drunkenly provoked her wrath by remarking, “I said I’d kiss your ass, not French kiss it.”

She beat me furiously, arousing both of us. When I again refused to lick her tail, she philosophized, “I’ll save that conquest for another day.”

And then she let me suckle her breasts while she fingered herself to sleep.