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Haven't written any D/s fiction for a while. Re-reading the last one, finding some inevitable similarities. Well, I've only been blessed with one kinky mind. Which is better than none at all I guess. My D/s fiction tends to be a pretext for a session or multi-sessions. Good for setting tone, but not overly prescriptive about the session(s) itself. I'm drawn to non-consensual or limited consent scenes that don't place too many burdens on the dominatrix to orchestrate; or "acting" duties for myself, which would be the source of endless cringing for the dominatrix. I "roleplay" as a shy, over-committed professional in need of very dominant guidance. In real life, I am a shy, over-committed professional in need of very dominant guidance. It's mostly a session-triggering backstory then, but hopefully entertaining to a certain mindset. Use the keywords to see if it's up your alley or would bore you to tears. A disclaimer: The Goddess in the story takes advantage of how easily she can turn her prey into a helpless puddle of submission - for which she can easily get him fired. It's not in any way a negative reference to #MeToo which I full-heartedly endorse. It's a fantasy only. The Goddess is quite ethical. But she knows her prey would benefit from knowing he has no choice but to do things her way.. *** Master. One of my company’s VIP clients is FF Consulting. Exactly what they do is only known to a few senior executives, but it is a thriving business and they are treated with the highest degree of deference and care whenever they visit our office. One day a representative from FF is in the office for meetings. Professional attire fails to conceal the fact that she is an utter Goddess. And there is just a hint of fetish in her choice of accessories. She has a particular gift for shape-shifting seamlessly between cult-worthy ethereal seductress and (relatively) innocent young professional. I first see her as I am getting in an elevator and hold the door for her. I immediately start looking down at the floor once the doors close. I am used to being invisible to women like her. She reminds me that I didn’t ask her floor. “Oh, sorry - which floor?” I press it and resume looking at the floor. I feel her looking at me appraisingly as I keep my gaze lowered. “Do you like my shoes, little one?” Little one? I am older, taller, larger. Yet it sounds so right coming from her. “Yes--” It is out of my mouth before I know it. I am praying someone else gets on the elevator, but it keeps moving.. “You’re a shy girl, aren’t you? I like shy girls.” Right then, it was over. She had already made up her mind about me. My shyness was like waving red meat in front of a lioness. From that point on she never referred to me or related to me as anything but her little girl, her bitch, her filthy whore. Slave girl. Not even slave boy. She grabbed my name tag and read it. “Mark, is it? Mark dear, we need to talk later.” I jumped back behind my professional facade. “I have meetings all day. I’m sure we have excellent people who can help you. I’ll just—“ “I don’t need help. And you will be excused from your meetings. Now be a good girl and go get me a water. I’ll be in conference room A.” Be a good girl? But I went back downstairs and bought 3 kinds of water not knowing which kind she liked. I recovered myself and knew what to do. I’d bring her water, show her my calendar with meetings all day and then offer to find literally anyone in the company to see to her needs. I found her alone in her reserved conference room. A sign outside said she was not to be disturbed… She smiled at my 3 kinds of water. “What an earnest little princess. You would make a Mistress very proud.” I was blushing uncontrollably. Then I remembered my calendar. I opened my phone to show her. “You see as I was saying before I’m very—“ But when I looked I saw that I was excused from all of that day’s meetings. And as her stern visage indicated, she already knew. “Never contradict me, pet. That will cost you 25 but only because it is your first offense.” “25?” “Strokes with my crop. On your pretty ass. I like to leave marks. Not today but soon enough. Still, I will remember your total. So no more rudeness, understood?” “Yes….” I was looking down again. Bewildered. "Yes, what?” “Yes…Mistress?” I guessed that was the title expected. “No, silly. Slave boys have Mistresses. Slave girls have Masters.” Then her tone changed from gentle correction to pure dominance. “Say it!” “Yes…Master...” “Good girl! See how easily that fell from your slutty lips? Run along now. Master is having your email and phone hacked and reviewing your credit card statements. I have some suspicions that I believe will be confirmed shortly.” My eyes popped. Could she really do this? But she already had my day’s meetings cancelled. Was she about to find all the BDSM pictures and videos I had downloaded? Every single one depicted total male submission. And all of the forced feminization materials. Even submission to transsexual Mistresses. She would also find my attempts to locate a therapist to “make my fantasies go away.” And the therapists’ analysis that my desires were perfectly healthy; and my insurance company's refusal to let me seek a 3rd and 4th opinion on a closed matter for an imaginary "problem"...... She would also find all the purchases of plugs, gags, restraints, chastity devices. The very picture of the reluctant, confused submissive. Everything she thought I was from the first "shy girl" moment in the elevator. I sat at my desk fighting a panic which was made worse by the fact that I had literally nothing to do. Finally around noon an email popped up from HR. It was notice of a status update. My gender had officially been changed from "male" to "intersex" on all my personnel records. The change was approved several management levels above me but made to look like it was done at my request. As I stared at this bizarre document trying to make sense of it, my phone rang. “Get back up here NOW, bitch." She hung up immediately. My panic rose 3 orders of magnitude. When I got back to the room she closed and locked the door behind me. Her teasing tone was gone. “On your knees, hands behind your back, eyes on the floor.” It was clear that she had given that command countless times. I was finding it impossible to recall that I was older, taller, anything. I felt powerless and deeply naive in her presence. “You have very interesting browser history and credit card receipts. Did you think I wouldn’t find out, slut?” “No, I-“ She slapped me. “No, what?” “No, Master.” She soothed my slapped cheek and her tone became gentle again. “Always be honest with me. There is no way to hide anything from me. Don’t try. Ever. Understand?” “Yes, Master.” I was embarrassingly aroused and jutting out of my pants; I wanted to cover up with my hands but was required to keep them behind my back. She rubbed me with her spiked heel, making matters much worse. Suddenly she grabbed my hair to make me face her. “Why isn’t your clit locked up? You have a chastity device. Why aren’t you wearing it?” I was thrown off by the word 'clit' and took a moment too long to reply, resulting in another slap. I felt like my 25 strokes was about to go up. “I just got it to experiment, Master.” “Am I an experiment, slave?” Slave? It was one thing to be required to call Her Master. It was another for Her to call me slave. I felt like I was in a locked room with the water up to my chin and my ankles chained to the floor. “No, Master. No.” “Then shave it and lock it and keep it shaved and locked. I won’t tell you again." “Yes, Master.” She took a picture of me with her phone, one that would suffice to end my career at this firm or any other. The water was continuing to rise in my locked room. "You do know, don’t you, how easily you can be terminated now? Behaving so obscenely in front of your most important client?” “I know, Master…” Doubtless she would switch off her insanely seductive dominance when dragging me in front of HR and instead present herself as the offended, completely innocent representative of a client who, let's be honest, could have me thrown off the roof if they wanted to. But as I was trying to come to grips with my permanent unemployability, she lifted my chin again to speak. “But we don’t want that, do we?. So I will see you on Saturday night. Dress the part.” “What is the 'part,' Master?” “Master’s new slut. Master’s new whore. Master’s new bitch. Master’s new slave girl. White with red accents would work. White because you are a virgin. Red because you are a slut.” Virgin? It was true. That was why everything was upside down. Why she could call me "little one" and not seem to simply be playing a part herself. It was why it sounded absolutely correct. Because in her world, I was a virgin. On Saturday I was directed to wait in a room, facing the wall with my arms and legs spread like a perp. I was “dressed for the part” in mostly white but red panties. I was also plugged and had leashes attached to my slave collar and chastity device. And shaved bare. She kept me waiting. I doubted she was ever late for anything. She simply wanted me to learn to wait for her. I knew not to turn around when she entered. She walked up behind me, took a firm hold of the leash between my legs, and breathed in my ear. “Good girl.” And right then, counter-intuitively, I knew I would be ok. Broken, violated in ways I couldn't even imagine, psychologically reprogrammed as whatever she wanted me to be. But ok. Even cherished if I accepted the inevitable without conditions. And the inevitable was to become whatever she considered a “good girl." She handed me a large garbage bag. "For your first task, put everything on the table in this bag and deposit it by the door so it can go out with the evening trash." "Yes, Master." I was eager to show my capacity for unthinking compliance. But when I turned and saw Master in a breathtaking latex dress, I began to wobble. She had, after all, kept me locked up all week and now presented me with this excruciatingly hot sight.... But tidying up would at least occupy my mind for a few moments. Then I saw what she had piled on the table for me to discard with that night's trash: my male clothing and the keys to my chastity device. I froze, taking in the threshold I was about to cross. Or be forced to cross. My delay was cut short as her crop crashed down on my ass giving me my first welt. "Never hesitate, slave. Everything I tell you to do is good for you, whether you understand it or not. So simply obey without thinking. That will cost you another 25." "Yes, Master." The water was rising again, but somehow I didn't care. i would have to learn to be a fish. Master smiled ever so slightly as I began to stuff everything in the bag. That smile was all the oxygen I needed.