Catherine Rules, A Femdom Novel

Chapter One Imperial Summons Catherine Roman loves power and loves with power. When a bitter rival challenged Mrs. Roman’s authority, she put her life and mine at risk. And in the moment of crisis, she handed me the weapon that turned me into a killer and her eternal slave. Mrs. Roman’s fierce, nearly black, eyes and high cheekbones thoroughly captivated me the first time I saw her, at a bankers’ meeting. The subtle slant of her eyelids spiced her beauty with exotic flavor. Although she was a dozen years my senior, I preferred one of Her Majesty’s withering glares to all of the smiles from thirty-something women my own age. Mrs. Roman’s five-foot-ten frame stretched her classic hourglass figure into sleekness and imbued her with the hauteur worthy of her role as a modern Catherine the Great. Mrs. Roman seized control in our upstate New York town—her hometown and my adopted residence—when the board of directors named her acting chairman of Savings and Trust Bank to succeed her late husband. Peter Roman died of a heart attack one crisp October night in 2002. (“He wanted me to love him to death, and I did,” Mrs. Roman once told me—not as a boast, but as a melancholy fact.) When Mrs. Roman commanded me to become her tool in January 2003, to do her dirty work while she took all of the credit, I eagerly capitulated. I thought I was accepting an invitation, but she preordained my fate. I was whipped. Go ahead and snicker. She actually used a whip, not just... Not that I’m a wimp. My personality was “forged in the hills of Pittsburgh,” to quote a phrase that some flack at our bank, Federal National, put in a news release about me—once. But when Catherine the Great exerted her will, I was more like molten steel than steel beams. Mrs. Roman called me at my office that fateful Wednesday afternoon in early January 2003 to issue her decree. At least part of me felt like a steel girder at the thought of surrendering to her cruelty. “Francis Prince,” she began our phone conversation. “Loved your speech at the Robert Morris conference.” The local chapter of Robert Morris Associates, a national group for commercial bank lenders, had met in December. “Thank you, Mrs. Roman—or should I say Madam Chairman?” Outside my window the trees in the park across the way were bending under a stiff wind. “Just don’t call me Madam Chairwoman—one letter removed from charwoman.” “‘Chairman’ sounds more aggressive. If you lived in Russia a few centuries ago, you could have been the original Catherine the Great.” “Yes! Francis—” “Or Frank,” I suggested. “A frank is just a hot dog. How do I know if you can cut the mustard?” “I prefer Heinz Ketchup.” “From that dreadful hometown of yours. Anyway, Francis,” she settled the issue, “are you still senior vice president, commercial lending?” “Yes. Why?” “I must address the invitation properly.” Dark clouds rolled in from the west. “A personal invitation? I’m flattered. And honored.” “Visit me at my country home this weekend. Tell me more about the business development plan you presented at the conference. I’ll pump you dry.” She had me. Glancing at my desk calendar, I noticed two crucial meetings with key clients scheduled for that Friday afternoon. One was a commercial real estate executive who developed malls, and the other constructed and leased office buildings. Big bucks. As if reading my mind, Mrs. Roman tightened her rein on me. “I’ll send my chauffeur to pick you up at one o’clock sharp on Friday. You will accept,” she paused before adding, as if I had a choice, “won’t you?” “Mrs. Roman—” “Remember, the stockholders will vote on your bank’s proposed merger with Leviathan National Bank this Friday. If Leviathan swallows Federal National—take that for all the bad puns in your speech!—you need to keep your options open.” A veiled job offer? “That’s very flattering, but I also need to stay loyal to Federal National as long as they write my checks.” “Absolutely,” she said, so smoothly that I had the sensation of being undressed without feeling anything. “However,” she added, “Harrington Burnside—speaking of the person who writes your check—always preaches cooperation between Federal National Bank and community banks, like Savings and Trust.” The purr in her satin voice seemed to say, Strap-on! To make sure I understood the veiled threat, she added, “Let’s not disappoint your CEO.” Or, to continue the analogy, she might as well have said, Thrust! I was fully, sexually aroused. “Since you put it to me that way, I’m wide open.” Her silence alarmed me for a moment. She audibly sucked in air, and then her aroused and arousing voice oozed these words: “You and I will get along splendidly! See you Friday.” Cradling the receiver, I pivoted in my chair and noticed that Suki Swisher, senior vice president, consumer lending, was standing right behind me. “What was that all about?” Suki drew her hefty salary by spying on colleagues instead of doing honest work. “Buttering up Catherine Roman,” I confessed. Suki had me dead to rights. “Maybe she has a position for me.” “Yeah, on your knees.” Suki’s champagne-colored eyes smoldered. With flaxen hair and pale complexion, Suki lacked any resemblance to her namesake from What’s Up, Tiger Lily? Her magnetism—from the challenge of her saucy lips to the wide-open look of her pelvis—sneaks up on men. Straightening my tie, Suki winked, “Schmooze your way to the top. Then maybe I’ll date you.” She tugged on my tie until my face was two inches from the beauty mark on her left cheek, just below her cheekbone. “Looking for the highest bidder?” “Yeah! Keep bidding!” She whirled around and sauntered away in a mincing stroll. Not even her beige wool business suit could mask the sensual motion of her shapely ass. Suki would never understand my kinky desires: Kissing Mrs. Roman’s posterior was its own reward. Getting a cushy job at her bank would exceed my expectations. Late that afternoon, I received and RSVPed Mrs. Roman’s hand-delivered invitation. The storm that gathered during our phone call covered our town with freezing rain and sleet before racing to the Atlantic that evening. Temperatures plunged to single digits under starry skies, freezing the accumulated precipitation. Lingering, numbing cold glazed the ice before another cold front rushed in Thursday night and dumped two feet of snow. It was just like Pittsburgh! My clients canceled our Friday meetings. “Thank you, Goddess Catherine!” I praised her aloud after the second cancellation. I called Grey Templeton, executive vice president and head of our region, to say I would take a vacation day. I considered nestling back in my warm bed, certain that Mrs. Roman would reschedule my visit. But the phone interrupted my plan. I let the phone ring twice before picking up. “Martin Covington here. Mrs. Roman’s driver. She said to pick you up at your house. This morning. Nothing else going on. How do I get there?” “The road crews haven’t cleared the streets near my neighborhood.” “I’m driving an SUV.” I gave Martin the directions to my house and offered to meet him at the nearest main road. “No, don’t mess up your clothes,” he said. “Mrs. Roman wants you to wear a business suit. Looks more professional. Pack lightly. She said not to bring a lot of clothes.” I assumed I’d wear the late Mr. Roman’s clothes. Creepy. Mrs. Roman’s actual plans would have made me feel freaky. And aroused. I shrugged, as if Martin could see me. “She’s the boss.” “Remember that,” he growled, halfway between advice and warning. When a black Cadillac Escalade pulled into my cul-de-sac, I ran out and climbed in on the passenger side. “Strong and elegant,” I nodded toward the SUV. “Like Mrs. Roman.” But Martin looked so out of context I almost laughed. Thin, delicate features reflected no humor. His pursed lips turned down at the corners. Martin was probably in his mid-40s, about Mrs. Roman’s age, and looked a couple of inches shorter than she. His chauffeur’s uniform contradicted the SUV concept. After I buckled my seatbelt, he circled back out of the cul-de-sac. “Thanks for the lift.” “Let her pamper you,” he said without preamble. “Mrs. Roman invited you over to coddle you. If you resist, she’ll destroy you.” “I’m fine, thank you. And how are you?” I asked sarcastically. “Forget the small talk. I’m preparing you for meeting Mrs. Roman.” “Thanks.” “I used to be her girl,” Martin continued. “Beg your pardon?” “She hates my real name. Calls me Martha.” “I’m Francis. Really.” I extended my hand and we shook hands. “My friends call me Frank, but I’ll always be Francis to Catherine the Great. She probably spells it with an e.” “You get the picture.” He smiled for a split second before the corners of his mouth turned down again. “Mrs. Roman sold me to a mistress in the City.” “Sold you?” “I’m history at the end of this week. Now she wants you.” “Hold on. She can’t just sell you ...” I looked out the window. A cottage about a half-mile from the highway reminded me of a scene from Dr. Zhivago. My mind returned to Martin’s incredible revelations. “She blackmailing you?” “Yeah.” He grimaced. “Not that she has to.” Martin turned off the highway to a long, elaborate driveway—practically a secondary road—leading up to an ornate, colorful mansion on a small hill. The bulbous, swirl-designed turrets—like giant machine-poured ice cream—reminded me of photographs of St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow. Pulling up to the garage adjoining the mansion, Martin rolled down the window and pointed the remote control to open the left of two garage doors. “Remember,” he cautioned, “just do what she says.” “You got it.” Martin parked the SUV next to the limousine in the garage, lowered the garage door, and opened a door leading into a cozy parlor. “Please wait here until Mrs. Roman can see you,” he said, resuming his role as Catherine the Great’s lackey. Closing and locking the house door to the garage, he crossed the room to three steps leading up to another door, and then left quietly. On the right wall, sunlight shone brightly through a large circular window perhaps four feet in diameter, several feet above eye level. Beneath the window was a large, leather couch. A massive mirror, framed in filigreed gold, dominated the opposite wall with a small couch beneath it. End tables with lamps flanked both couches. Three floor lamps each stood beside wingback chairs. Although magazines were scattered throughout the room, the casualness looked suspiciously orderly. Sure enough, the newest issue of W, crammed with photographs of women in sensual outfits, seemed conspicuously placed. I sank into the leather couch to savor my treasure. My mouth watered while I turned the pages. Spotting another issue of W, I gobbled up its visual treats. Then I flipped through several issues of Vogue and Cosmopolitan. The Cosmo models looked too young for my tastes. But all of the women, especially those in slinky outfits, collectively turned me on. When my horniness reached full capacity, the door at the top of the stairs swung open dramatically, and Mrs. Roman stared down her nose at me in haughty amusement. Her personal appearance outshone all of the two-dimensional magazine pictures. She wore black to observe her mourning period, but I doubt that the late Mr. Roman would have approved of the alluring sheen of her dress, clinging to and highlighting every delicious curve of her body, especially her breasts and rear end. Gazing at those shrouded mounds confirmed my decision to call her Catherine the Great. She was holding a pair of gloves and a diamond necklace. Impulsively, I started to my feet. “I would tell you not to get up,” she said, riveting her flashing, nearly black eyes on the bulge in my pants, “but I see I’m too late.” Her beautiful face dimpled enticingly, making me think of an extremely rich dessert—wickedly, excessively pleasing, but so bad for me. “Be seated.” I obeyed her for the first of countless occasions. When she walked down the steps, sliding her right hand along the small railing on that side, her calf muscles flexed temptingly against her black stockings. The shiny, black material of her dress—she told me later it was called ciré—both shadowed and projected the movement of her hips and thighs. By the time she stood before me, a damp circle was forming on my pants at the head of my c**k. Mrs. Roman’s raven hair was pulled into a bun, accentuating her high cheekbones. Her lush, crimson-painted lips remained in a smirk. Her face projected a cruel beauty, the countenance of someone destined to dominate and humiliate. “Hold this,” she said, handing me her necklace. While I watched her slither one hand and arm into its kidskin, opera-length glove, my c**k oozed more pre-c*m into my pants. The sensual motions of her hand and arm inside the glistening glove made me want to jerk off. Then she slowly treated me to the s****l symbolism of her other hand wiggling into its glove-mate, and I thought I would explode. She took the diamond necklace from my hands. I knelt impulsively, almost instinctively, before her. She placed her necklace in my chair. She wore black patent leather pumps with four-inch heels, like small shrines for her feet. Bowing further, I kissed each foot several times. I was at a total loss to explain what I had just done. Remaining on my knees, I raised my head and said, “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be, Princess.” She cradled my head in her gloved hands and pressed my face into the fabric covering her sacred delta. I must have betrayed a puzzled reaction to her firmness, because she explained, “I’m wearing a girdle.” Another of my favorite fetishes. My head was swimming. I felt immersed in fantasy, able to do anything I wanted to. I nuzzled her crotch softly. Reality nibbled at the edge of my mind. I pulled my head back and looked up again. “Why did you call me Princess?” “I rule, my little Princess—a contraction of ‘Prince’ and ‘Francis.’ I grant you a place of power and privilege beside me. But only if you subjugate yourself completely to me: your heart, your soul, your body, your will. Understand?” I hugged her hips and pressed my face back into her haven. “Yes, Your Majesty!” I declared loud enough for her to hear me through the muffling effect of her thighs. My emotions soared and pushed tears into my eyes. My aching c**k longed for release and relief. “Unhook my stockings.” My hands trembled while I detached the garters. So close to paradise! After I finished, she turned her back to me and wiggled out of her black girdle, keeping the skirt of her dress down so that I didn’t get a free show. Stepping out of her girdle, she turned and walked back to me. Cupping her hands behind my neck, she took my compliant head and rubbed my nose up and down against her mons veneris. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “For you.” Her left hand gripped the back of my head, and her right lifted her dress. Moisture glistened on her hair. I licked it away, teasing her major labia with sweeping passes. Gently separating them, I kissed her swollen c******s, sucking and licking her into moans and spasms. She stepped over my shoulders, one at a time, to squeeze the maximum pleasure from her climax. When her orgasm finally subsided, I cleaned her thoroughly with my tongue. She patted me on the head. “Was it good for you, too, Princess?” “Yes, Your Majesty.” “Was anything missing?” “You are perfection. Nothing was missing.” “You’re lying, Princess. Good. If you lie for me, what else will you do? Turn around.” After a few moments, she said, “You may look now.” I turned just in time to see her last shimmy to wiggle back into her girdle. “Put my necklace on me, Princess. It’s hard to clasp with these gloves on.” I picked up the necklace and stood close behind her. My unrequited c**k tried to reach out and touch her ass. But, unsure of Mrs. Roman’s expectations, I stayed clear of her rump and reached the necklace around her from arm’s length. “I’m watching you in the mirror,” she taunted. “Are you afraid of me?” Our eyes met in the mirror. “More like total awe. Like being in the presence of a goddess.” “Good! I shall beat you severely. Understood?” “Yes.” “But if you misbehave, I shall have to punish you.” She backed up, nestling her rump against my c**k. “Which shall it be? A whipping or punishment?” “I’m your whipping boy!” My own words surprised me, but with Catherine the Great, the bizarre seemed normal. She rewarded me by wiggling her ass against my c**k. When she bent over at the waist, the warmth and semi-softness of her derriere, despite the girdle, made me start shooting off. She maintained maximum contact while swiveling her hips, goading me into releasing jets of c*m into my pants. “Need help, little Princess?” Her condescending tone coaxed more out of me. Facing me, she took my head into her arms and pressed my face into her bosom. Arching her back, she rubbed her crotch against my groin, creating enough friction to finish me off. I knelt and kissed her feet again. “Princess!” she rebuked me. “You’ve made a mess.” Her entrapment—luring me into cumming in my pants and then blaming me for being sloppy—tightened her psychological vise on me. Rapture engulfed me. I walked on my knees behind her and pressed my lips into the fabric of her dress covering her girdle and ass. “Good girl!” she said. “But not now. Wait till I’m undressed. Give me your clothes, and I’ll have Martha—I mean, Martin—clean them. Give me everything. No bad jokes about taking you to the cleaners. We both know I’ll do that later.” Catherine the Great elated me. She was the antidote to my hectic career: decisions, conflicts, rudeness, guilt—most of all, guilt. She would punish me to cleanse away my sins. All I had to do was give up, give in, and surrender unconditionally to Her Majesty. She would provide me absolution. I stripped quickly. She took every article of my clothing—even my shoes, socks, and underwear—and walked back up the steps. She paused with her left leg crossing over to the top step, while her right remained on the step below—a calculated pose to showcase her splendid, tightly-wrapped ass. “I’ve adjusted the thermostat,” she said. “Let me know if you start to feel comfortable, and I’ll lower the temperature.” Then she left. Her power of suggestion and the removal of her sizzling presence made me feel cold. Minutes later she opened the door and stuck her head through the doorway. “No more accidents. Here.” Concealing her body behind the door, she extended her arm to toss me an object. I snagged the three-pack of condoms in the air. “Thanks. Oh, could I have—” “—something to wear,” she finished my thought, tossing a bundle toward me. She closed the door, and I heard the bolt click in the lock. I glanced up at the window, but it was inset and not designed to open. And Martin had locked the door leading to the garage. No escape. So, I concentrated on the clothes she lent me: her dress, girdle, stockings, and shoes. I suppose her gloves were too expensive to lend me. I shivered. Mrs. Roman’s intention was clear. I could either freeze my tail off. Or be a good little Princess and play dress up for her.