As I noted earlier:

Specializing in Fetish/Kink/FemDom — Fantasy Phone Sex, I have to admit that Mr. Vanilla is not my typical client.

Despite the above statement, Mr. Vanilla has now joined that ever-evolving elite group here at Zen Fetish, my highly-coveted Savant Collection. Think of him as a unicorn among thoroughbreds, The Thing amidst the Fantastic Four, or even a highly-evolved republican among democrats. Because he is all of this and much more. Grouse if you will — Mr. Vanilla is highly regarded by this webmistress and is here to stay.

So…I finally got around to sitting down with Mr. V for the promised interview. And guess what? He was quite the slippery one. Just see for yourself:

Angela: Well, Mr. Vanilla, people seem interested in meeting you.

Vanilla Savant: Really? I’m not quite sure why. But I’m happy to work with you on an interview.

Since I kinda-sorta sprung it on you, I’m certainly glad you’re gracious enough to go along with this. Let’s start with the basics. How old are you?

Middle-aged.

(pssst: See how non-specific he is? Politely so, of course.)

Mmmm. I do like my men seasoned just so. Older men are so much better to train. Er, I meant, to play with.

Of course that’s what you meant, my love.

(pssst: See how gracious he is? Always the gentleman.)

What are your politics?

Middle-of-the-road.

Dearest Mr. Savant, we’ve had many political — shall we call them — volleys? A discussion of your politics requires more than four words, dontcha think? At least give me a sentence.

Okay. I will admit to being registered Republican, but with (at times) strong Democratic or at least Liberal leanings.

Are you wealthy?

Middle-class.

What a crock! If you are middle class, then I am Food Stamp Fannie hanging out at the soup kitchen. Try again.

Maybe some would consider me wealthy. But there are certainly many others with much more than me.

Not that many others. I’ll let it slide for now. But just you wait ’til I get you on the phone again. I am going to make you do something very naughty!

You tease me so deliciously, Miss St. Lawrence. I can hardly wait. Perhaps we should stop this interview now and have a little phone dalliance?

Not so fast, Buster. Inquiring minds are hanging on our every word! We have a responsibility to the Zen audience.

Of course. What was I thinking? Fire away.

Ok, Mr. Smarty Pants. What is your favorite sexual position?

There’s more than one?

I think you’re teasing me and the Zen readers.

Maybe a bit. But then, you were teasing me. What would you like to know?

Tell us the basics about yourself.

Married. Grown kids. A lawyer. I retired a few years ago and have been having fun exploring new careers in teaching and professional research.

And what, pray tell, brought you to me?

I was just web-cruising one night and found your website, Literate Smut. It was so different than other “phone sex” sites I’d seen: Sophisticated, creative. I was intrigued. Who was the woman behind all of this? So I listened to one of your audio recordings. Very sexy! I left you a five star review, to which you sent a very nice Thank You with an invitation to talk. As I recall, I was a bit nervous.

And then what did you do?

Before making an actual direct call, I decided to listen to another of your recordings. As both of us know and will never forget, I reviewed it with four stars which I thought was pretty good.

Did I agree with you? Did I think four stars was pretty good?

You certainly didn’t and had no problem telling me so. You came at me with a furious email. I was really surprised. My first experience of submissiveness in your presence, I guess.

Did I scare you?

Actually, you did. At least a little bit. But I did email you back with my reasoning.

I remember. You were very polite about the whole thing. And then we started talking. On the Phone, Finally!

Yes. And I got to know what a wonderful conversationalist and companion you are. So for a few years now, we’ve been chatting.

Chatting about …?

Your life. My life. Movies. Politics. What do friends talk about? Or, in the case of politics, what do friends argue about? Literature. Your poetry, which I think is incredible.

(pssst: He thinks my poetry is incredible!)

No phone sex?

Of course there is phone sex. Delicious phone sex. And you really have expanded my horizons quite a bit, which has been exciting and, well, a lot of fun, too. What impresses me is your ability to listen, to build a fantasy around where I am, but to take it just a bit further than I might have suggested, so that I feel totally safe but thrilled by being in new territory. That’s a gift to me every time.

Beloved Savant, your ability to go with me wherever I take you has been your gift to both of us. I have loved and continue to love ever minute of it. But what about other PSOs? Have you ever called any other PSOs?

There are only two occasions when this has happened. The first time was when we were still getting to know each other. You urged me to try others. I think your exact words were, “If you can’t cheat with phonesex, that’s pretty sad.” So I did. But I ran back to you quickly. The experience was horrid. I told you then that it was the best PR you could have given yourself.

I remember that. You were pretty funny. But, in defense of other PSOs, you really didn’t try that hard. What is the second occasion?

When you’ve asked me to help out a friend of yours. Which is typical of your generosity, Angie. You really look out for your peers. It is amazing. Other than that, I really haven’t. I’ve been so satisfied with our calls that there hasn’t been any reason to try to meet someone else.

You show up (under your online name) at this blog quite often. Why do you spend time here?

In a way, it lets me continue the conversation when you and I aren’t on the phone together. Plus Zen Fetish is turning out to be pretty interesting reading; I love the variety of things that you post, and I’m beginning to appreciate your other fans. They always have something intelligent and interesting to say. I’m sometimes a bit jealous of their special relationships with you, of course, but I also have come to respect them. They all show great taste in women, for example!

(pssst: See how charming he is?)

Have you any suggestions for other “fans?”

I think your clients end up being a self-selecting bunch. Someone really crass or rude probably won’t appreciate your subtlety or intelligence and will move on. So your regulars don’t need any advice from me. Except, maybe, not to leave a four-star review!

Any requests of me?

Do I have to be “Mr. Vanilla” forever?

Ah, Mr. V, you’re such a cute savant. Just stay the way that you are. I promise to take you out to play (on the wrong side of the tracks — where the wild things are) lots and lots. Besides, you’re so cute when you squirm.

If you say so. I will trust you. You’ve never let me down yet.

Ok, before we end this, you know I am linking to a charity with each entry throughout the holidays. I want you and our readers to know that today’s charity is First Book. Do you want to tell the readers why?

Wow! Well, I guess it’s because I donated to this charity in memory of your brother, because you and I both so deeply believe in the importance of books and reading and writing.

Yes. It is a lovely charity. Thank you.

And now, my Vanilla Savant, let’s see if our readers have any questions for you, shall we?

Oh no!

Oh, yes!

***

by Pervert Savant

Read Chapter 1

The Heart-Rending Story of an Innocent Pre-Operative Transsexual Forced to Confront Brutality and Recidivism in the Dank Cells of the Toughest Prison in Texas.

CHAPTER II: An Audience with “The Warden.”

Warden W. Lester McCobb leaned back in his chair squinting at the correspondence he held in his pudgy hands with obvious irritation. The object of his attention was another letter from Purvis McCutcheon, the Assistant Superintendent of Prisons of the State of Texas. McCobb hated McCutcheon, hated receiving correspondence from McCutcheon, and hated even more responding to correspondence from McCutcheon.

“What’s that little pissant want me to do now?” McCobb growled. “Institute macramé workshops for rapists?”

McCobb and McCutcheon had philosophical differences about the proper direction of Texas penology.

“The trouble with McCutcheon is he’s crock full of that Austin liberal reform shit,” McCobb muttered. “He’s got about as much sense as an armadillo in heat. It’s pansy-assed little shit wads like McCutcheon that are responsible for the screwed up state of the prisons in this here country!”

McCobb had his own ideas about running prisons. He came from a long line of prison wardens – four generations of them, in fact. Grainy pictures of his clone-like ancestors proudly graced the walls of McCobb’s office. Prison management was in McCobb’s blood – literally. Indeed, the initial “W” in McCobb’s first name actually stood for “Warden.” McCobb seldom told people that “Warden” was his first name. The appellation had been conferred by a doting father at birth. But to McCobb’s sensitive ear, and given his present station at West Texas Correctional, it sounded a bit redundant. At West Texas Correctional all personnel and convicts knew McCobb simply as “The Warden.” Only McCobb’s close relatives, in moments of rare intimacy, called him “Warden Warden.”

McCobb shifted uneasily in his chair, pushed his black-framed glasses back from their customary perch at the bottom of his flared nostrils, and disgustedly tossed McCutcheon’s partially read letter onto his desk. He reached into his jacket pocket, removed a previously opened package of “Mail Pouch,” and placed a three-fingered wad of the tobacco carefully into his mouth. McCobb had indulged in this noble pleasure since age 14 and a discerning viewer could read his emotional moods by the position of the plug of tobacco beneath his pinkish jowls. Today’s telltale positioning indicated that McCobb was having an unusually bad morning.

“Where the hell’s Biff?” McCloud growled. “What’s this shit about another knifing? The last goddamned thing I want to do today is send another knifing report to Austin. That’s the fourth one this month! They’re gonna have my ass.”

McCobb shifted his plug to a position reflecting greater irritation and stabbed an intercom button on his phone system. “Tansy, you tell Biff to get her ass in here right now. I go away to Waco for three days and this place turns to turds!”

A disembodied Latina voice on the other end of the intercom responded: “Sheez onna her way een right now, Warden. I tole heer you want to see heer.”

“And where’s Cherie? I heard she patched the Mexican up.”

“Sheez eena the commissary. You wan me to tell heer you wanna to see her too?”

“Damn straight I want to see her. These goddamned reports don’t get written out of thin air. I need facts! Get her in here right now.”

“Hokay, right away, Warden,” Tansy’s invisible voice responded.

McCobb adjusted his plug to a more pensive position on the right side of his mouth and began filling out the all-too familiar multi-plied yellow, green, white and pink form that was appropriately labeled “Texas State Penitentiary Standard Accident Report No. 7 (Knifings).” McCobb had successfully negotiated the “Prisoner Name” and “Date” blanks on the form and was trying to cope with the one marked “Applicable Aliases” when Biff finally made her appearance in The Warden’s office.

Silently noting the burly lesbian’s arrival, McCobb shifted his plug back to its standard “very irritated” position, grunted, and then neatly expectorated a brownish jet of tobacco juice into a brass spittoon strategically located at the side of his chair. An answering ping, emanating from the depths of the spittoon, welcomed Biff into the Warden’s presence.

“Tansy said you wanted to see me,” Biff opened nonchalantly, trying her best to ignore both the neatly aimed jet and the resounding ping.

“Damn right I do, Biff,” McCobb growled. “What’s this shit about another knifing?”

“Oh that. Well, Warden, y’see, while you were away in Waco the Acevedo boys got into it. Things got a little ugly, and Chuey wound up sticking a blade in Alejandro.”

“Goddamit!” cursed McCobb. “I put those two in the same cell because I wanted to avoid crap like this. Hell, they’re brothers, ain’t they? Why’d Chuey wanta go and knife his own brother?”

“Well, they ain’t really brothers, exactly, Warden. They got the same mother but. different fathers,” Biff corrected. Biff had learned the importance of precision in her criminology class at Amarillo State Junior College. Precision was one of the qualities that made Biff an outstanding alumnus of ASJC as well as one of the more promising guards at West Texas Correctional.

McCobb tongued his plug rapidly to the other side of his mouth – a sure sign of rising anger that was not lost on the always-perceptive Biff.

“Okay, dammit, so they’re half-brothers.” McCobb growled. Same goddamned question. Why’d Chuey go and cut up his half-brother?”

“Well, I ain’t exactly sure, Warden,” replied Biff. “One of the cons that supposedly saw it tole me that Alejandro called Chuey’s mother a whore. You know Mexicans. They don’t like that. They love their mothers. I guess Chuey overreacted.”

McCobb’s jowls began quivering as the plug underneath began shifting to alternatingly starboard, and then port, positions.

“But they have the SAME mother, dumbass. Why would Alejandro call Chuey’s mother a whore if the woman he’s calling a whore is his own mother too? You expect me to put crap like that in my report to the Superintendent in Austin?”

Biff nervously fingered her badge, the pin of which, for some reason, she had accidentally and irritatingly placed directly over her left nipple. The pin’s location added to Biff’s growing sense of unease as she continued relating what she knew of the knifing to McCobb.

“Well, Warden, I’m just telling you the same thing that the con tole me. Maybe I got it wrong. Or maybe their mother really IS a whore. I don’t know. It’s possible. I don’t speak much Mexican.”

“Well, where’d Chuey get the goddamned knife?” McCobb asked, increasingly angered at Biff’s diffidence.

“It was a piece of metal, Warden. Remember when you had Chuey wax your car last week? I think he broke off a piece of your license plate. You sharpen a piece of metal like that up enough on a concrete floor and you get a pretty good prison blade.”

Biff paused in her narrative to pop a stick of Wrigley’s Spearmint (her favorite!) in her mouth. “Hell,” thought Biff, “if he can chew, so can I.”

“Anyway, Warden,” Biff continued, “that probably explains why the number ‘7’ went missing from the ass end of your car’s license plate.”

McCobb paused, placed his head in his hands for a few moments, and then lifted his eyes. Biff noted warily that those same eyes now seemed redder and buggier than they had immediately before the pause. Biff also noted that McCobb’s tobacco wad had shifted to a new “near-homicidal” position.

“Oh, fine. Just great,” McCobb yowled. “McCutcheon’s gonna have my ass for this. A Mexie stabs his own brother in a high-security cell block and he uses a piece of metal from my own car’s license plate to do it. And where am I when all this is happening? Yeah. Right. Away at some dipshit conference in Waco.”

“Well, shit happens, Warden,” said Biff, inadvertently popping her gum but trying to sound sympathetic. “I guess this means no more cons waxing your car, huh?”

McCobb rolled his eyes and moved his plug into its angriest position. “Biff, you keep your yap shut about that license plate, y’hear? I’ll figure out somethin’ to tell McCutcheon, but you better remember that I left you in charge here while I was away. If my ass gets in a sling for this, that fat ass of yours does too.”

“Er, yeah, sure thing, Warden,” Biff replied uncomfortably, once more feeling the pin-end of her badge biting into her nipple. “You know me. Mum’s the word.”

Not liking the new position of the Warden’s wad, Biff concluded it was probably time to leave his presence. As she closed the door behind her, Biff could hear McCobb cursing alone in his office, loudly and creatively.

***

Well it looks like Pervert Savant is cooking now, eh? Chapter 3 (the final chapter) is just around the corner so persevere, beloved Smut Mongers. It won’t be long now.

xo, Angela

…or on the Edge of Vanilla.

One and the same, kinda-maybe-sorta?

I love, adore, worship, fantasize about, treasure, relish, celebrate all things kink. In proper measure, that is. So many ways to be sexy, to turn others and ourselves on…why get fetished out? Because being fetished out is an addictive behavior, don’t ya know? And it robs us and those we love of so many experiences waiting to be shared.

I am thinking along these lines for three very specific reasons. Let’s look at them individually, shall we?

Submissive Savant: A Well-Balanced Slave-Type

I know I speak of Richard quite often, but I’m like that with my friends. So quit your griping and deal with it already! Richard, as you should know by now is in love with and loved by his provacative/kissable Goddess Alexandra. He does have and knows that he has the best of both worlds: the lazy intimacy of connected spirits and the edgy heat of kink and fetish play. I like this guy’s style. I like it a lot. We should all be so lucky to have it all, and know to appreciate it.

So it seems Richard decided to make a list. A very special list. Because even the most balanced of us need to sometimes wallow in the kinkier strains of our multifaceted selves. Titled Ten Best Things About BDSM, Richard’s list (which includes –gawd, I love this guy– peace and self-knowledge) is presented as a meme (project) in which we kinkster-blogger types are welcome to participate. I am contemplating a few lists along these lines. Probably should have one up tomorrow. That oughta wet your wicked little whistles.

Vanilla Savant: My Teacher and Student

Specializing in Fetish/Kink/FemDom Fantasy Phone Sex, I have to admit that Mr. Vanilla is not my typical client. But he showed up and stuck around, despite my giving him a tongue lashing (because I’m a big baby sometimes) via email before we’d even spoken on the phone. I feel pretty darn lucky that he chivalrously chose to ignore my brattiness and give me a chance, because I’ve benefited much from what has turned into a deep friendship of mutual affection and appreciation.

Mr. Vanilla was and still is, well, vanilla at heart. But what’s so wrong with that? After all, it’s how homes are built, babies are made, families are grown. And he has done all of that and done it well. He teaches me every day about decency, honesty, doing the right thing.

I –or somebody like me– was a secondary thought in Mr. Vanilla’s life. A choice he made due to the unfair choices of others. At least I think that is a good way to put it.

But once he arrived, I began ever-so-slowly to introduce him to “kink around the edges.” And guess what? He likes it. He likes it a lot. And he really likes me. And no — absolutely not! I will not tell you about our personally shared kink. That is his to keep forever. And it is mine to keep safe for him forever.

And guess what else? I really like him. In fact, as he is now officially a part of my Savant Collection, I think I will introduce him to you (if he’ll let me…I haven’t asked yet) in an up and coming entry. Stay tuned for The Vanilla Savant Interview.

Balancing Act: Va-Kink-Nilla

So I made a new friend today, a most interesting one. I’d been catching his comments on Richard’s blog (see above), signed Tom Allen, which linked to his blog. Impressed by what he had to say, I checked him out with my most insightful Submissive Savant. “One of the Good Guys,” Richard said. And that was good enough for me.

Surreptitiously reading Tom’s blog and paying attention to (and usually agreeing with) the things he has to say for more than a few days now, I’ve come to the most delightful conclusion that he and I have, in fact, much in common.

I should have known. After all, he named his blog, The Edge of Vanilla. Which is where I am most of the time. FemDom for fun and games and fantasy play, but mostly creamy vanilla in the center. I just like room to stretch when the mood strikes me…which seems to be what Tom is aiming for.

So I finally took the plunge and posted a comment at his blog yesterday. And guess what? He knew who I was. Just blew me away, let me tell ya. So I’ve listed him under Hot Blog over to the right. Visit him often. He has lots to learn and lots to teach. They’re always the most fun people to be around, don’t ya think?

~Angela

by Pervert Savant

The Poignant Story of a Young Pre-Operative Transsexual Forced into a Life of Twisted Sex and Degradation in the Sordid Confines of America’s Penal System!

Chapter 1: Twisted Sex in the Prison Infirmary

 

Cherie inhaled languidly on her first Virginia Slim of the day and idly contemplated the hairy figure of the bleeding con that was strapped to the prison infirmary’s examination table. The scarlet wound in the con’s abdomen did not look good to Cherie.

 

“We found him in Block Seven with a shiv stuck in his gizzard," growled Biff, the statuesque female guard that had brought him in.  “You better patch him up quick before he meets his maker! The Warden isn’t gonna like this."

 

“Biff" wasn’t the guard’s real name, Cherie knew. Her first name was actually “Mary."  But Biff, like most of the female prison guards at West Texas Corrective Facility for Incorrigibles #8, was a bull dyke. You couldn’t be a card-carrying bull dyke at West Texas Corrective and have a first name like Mary.

 

Cherie took a last puff from her full-flavored Luxury Light 120 (her favorite!) and directed her attention to the con, who was struggling to put his strapped hands over his gushing wound while moaning prayers in Spanish.

 

“Santa Maria, Madre de Dios"

 

Cherie confidently reached for a bottle of antiseptic, noting, as she did so, that her long, artificial nails could use a new coat of polish. It was so HARD keeping her nails looking the way they should and still be a prison nurse. It was one of Cherie’s biggest regrets about her occupational status at West Texas Corrective. “It’s so sad," thought Cherie as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “At West Texas Corrective, fashion always seems to be a secondary consideration."

 

“There, there sugar. You just stop that nasty moaning!  We’ll have you as good as new in just a jiffy," Cherie chirped cheerily.  “Now hold still! I don’t need to break another nail!"

 

Biff snorted disparagingly at the groaning Hispanic, all the while admiring the lush contours of Cherie’s buttocks. These were prominently on display as Cherie bent over the leaking Mexican and expertly poured antiseptic into the crimson maw that had once been an intact stomach.  "Nice ass," mused Biff idly to herself.  “I wouldn’t mind having a crack at that crack!"

 

Biff pulled an unfiltered Camel from behind her left ear and ignited it with a nickel-plated Zippo lighter. The Zippo was a gift from one of Biff’s former lovers. The name “Biff" was prominently engraved on its side in Old English lettering.

 

“Yeah, Cherie’s one nice piece of fluff," Biff mused.  "It’s a shame that the Warden’s got designs on her. Otherwise, I might put a move on her myself!"

 

The brown antiseptic that Cherie had poured into the hole in his gut seemed to enliven Alejandro. His low moans quickly turned to screams and his twitching increased and became markedly more spasmodic. Cherie waved a long-nailed finger under Alejandro’s nose and said, firmly, “Now you just hush up, honey! I’m working as fast as I can!"

 

Cherie’s confident manner, coupled with his acute loss of blood, seemed to calm Alejandro. His screams gradually receded into muffled sobs and his twitching changed to merely an occasional spasm of jerks. Cherie’s well-intentioned ministrations were obviously having their designed effect.

 

While Alejandro continued to writhe on the examination table, Cherie minced over to a glass-paneled cabinet. Cherie’s movements continued to intrigue Biff, who took another opportunity to ogle Cherie’s tush  — the twin orbs of which, at that moment, were on prominent display beneath her flimsy cotton nurse’s uniform. Ignoring Biff, Cherie continued to rummage in the cabinet.

 

The guards at the prison had lately taken to selling the infirmary’s drugs to the cons for pocket money: something that made Cherie’s work occasionally difficult.

"It’s so unprofessional," thought Cherie.  “Just when you need something, you find out it’s gone."

Cherie explored the depleted inventory that had once been the infirmary’s well-stocked medicine cabinet, pushing aside, in the process, her own ample supply of Estradiol Valerate and Progesterone.  As usual, Cherie emerged from her search dismayed.

 

“Oh great," Cherie groaned.  “First the Demerol disappears, then the Morphine, and now even the Tylenol’s gone! Biff, did you take the last of that too?" Cherie intoned, eyeing the burly lesbian guard accusingly.  “How can I be an angel of mercy when you and your friends keep taking all of my tools?"

 

Biff shifted her massive form uncomfortably and did her best to ignore Cherie’s question. Rather than answering, Biff opted to take another long draw on her Camel. Then, affecting an attitude of injured innocence, Biff responded, “You know I’m a degreed criminal science professional," Biff replied.  “I wouldn’t do nothin’ as unprofessional as that."  Hoping to change the subject, Biff then began humming “T for Texas," thinking that her accuser might be distracted by the bouncy C & W tune — one of Biff’s favorites.

 

“Hey, you like Ernest Tubb, honey?" Biff asked. “I got all his records."

 

Cherie ignored Biff’s question. She preferred Disco to the pervasive C & W that seemed to be the prison preference. Instead of pursuing the matter further with Biff, she shook out two aspirins from the green bottle and then poured some water into a paper cup. Cherie then popped both aspirins into her own mouth and chased them with water. Alejandro’s groaning had given her a splitting headache.

 

Her own medical problems attended to, Cherie then shook out two more tablets and refilled the cup for her patient

 

“Here, Alejandro. Bottoms up, honey! You just take a couple of these and I promise it won’t hurt so much. These little thingies are buffered. They shouldn’t hurt your tummy one bit. But even if they do, it serves you right! You boys in Block Seven are always playing such silly games."

 

Alejandro sat up to choke down the pills, swallowed some water, and then fell back onto the table, his eyes rolling in obvious pain.

 

“When’s the Warden coming back from that conference in Waco?" Biff asked, trying her best to make conversation with Cherie while simultaneously changing the subject from the missing Tylenol.  “I thought he was s’posed ta be back here yesterday."

 

“He stayed over to do some shopping,” Cherie smiled. “They have better malls in Waco than they do here.”

Cherie spoke about the Waco malls from experience. She was intimately familiar with all of the malls in West, and most of those in East, Texas. She’d given the Warden a long shopping list and particularly hoped that he would be returning from his trip with a lilac peignoir that she had picked out for herself from her latest Victoria’s Secret catalogue. But one could never be sure about the Warden. Cherie knew that his lingerie preferences ran to bullet bras and girdles and his favorite color was fire-engine red.

 

While waiting for the aspirin to take effect with Alejandro, Cherie took the opportunity to refresh her pulse points with a few liberal spritzes of Opium. Opium was Cherie’s favorite fragrance. She preferred it to the smell of denatured alcohol that ordinarily permeated the infirmary. It was also the closest thing to a real opiate left in the infirmary’s depleted medicine cabinet.

 

Biff sniffed the odor of the Opium, grunted approvingly, and then stubbed out the remains of her Camel on the infirmary’s tile floor. Meanwhile, Cherie – now suitably refreshed — removed a fistful of gauze from a plastic jar and began stuffing antiseptic-soaked wads of it into Alejandro’s wound.

 

Biff watched the process admiringly. “This little cunt’s pretty good at her work, “Biff mused. “I think she likes me. The next time the Warden’s gone, I may have to have a little chat with her.”

 

Cherie then raised one end of the examination table, ignored Alejandro’s answering wails, and began shimmying around the table with a roll of adhesive tape. Cherie wound the tape around Alejandro’s midsection and that seemed to stop most of his bleeding.

 

“There, sweetie! That ought to keep you safe and sound until Dr. Lumley comes in.”

 

Cherie eyed her finished work proudly, choosing to ignore a small red spot — slowly becoming larger — that stubbornly seeped through the gauze. “If Doc Lumley stayed sober last night, he ought to be in here to see you in a couple of hours. So stop worrying!”

 

Alejandro groaned gratefully.

 

“Take him away, Biff. But not back to Block Seven. Move him to the side room and let him get some sleep. The Doc will be all over me if Alejandro gets knifed again before he gets a chance to look at him.”

 

Biff nudged the still moaning Alejandro with her nightstick. “C’mon amigo. Time ta move!”

 

Alejandro struggled to his feet, his knees buckling as he slid off the table. Biff grabbed the con under his armpits and steered him to a wheelchair that Cherie had thoughtfully provided. At 6’ 1” and weighing 250 pounds, maneuvering the Mexican into the wheelchair was easy work for Biff. Biff hoped that this womanly display of strength and professionalism wasn’t lost on Cherie.

 

“See ya later, cupcake. Maybe we can talk a little bit more sometime soon,” Biff winked. Biff then took the opportunity to pinch Cherie’s left nipple between the ends of her stubby fingers. “Ha, ha! Titty twister!” Biff chuckled, hoping Cherie would appreciate her attentions.

 

“You quit that, Biff. It isn’t funny!” said Cherie, wincing uncomfortably at Biff’s touch.

 

“Sorry, baby. Just a little joke!” said Biff, not one bit unrepentant.

 

“Why does everyone have to twist my left nipple?” Cherie wondered to herself. “No one ever does that to my right one.” She continued to speculate on this strange phenomenon as Biff, somewhat chastened, turned and wheeled the now comatose Alejandro from the examination room.

 

“I guess it’s just all in a day’s work at West Texas Correctional,” Cherie sighed to herself as she rubbed her now-swollen left nipple. Then, seeing that Biff was finally gone, Cherie removed her latex gloves, opened her compact and, eyeing its mirror, deftly began retouching her mascara.

 

Today we finish up Richard’s piece which he’s so generously shared with Zen Fetish.

If you haven’t done so already, be sure to read Part I and Part II before continuing. It’s been interesting reading commentary/reaction to the first two parts, which seems to reflect a bit of confusion regarding Richard’s purpose in writing this bit of “specualtive D/s Fiction.”

But it really isn’t that complicated. As Richard explains (click link to read more): “I wrote it many years ago to give dominant women that I met online a picture of my perception of Femdom relationships.” Anyway, let’s see how this “Imaginary Femdom Encounter” turns out:

Fantasy Mistress: Part III

As I went up the walkway I wondered how she’d test me today. And what the tests proved. And when they’d end. We actually exchanged a fair amount of email before she’d agreed to see me. We shared complimentary appetites: she like to do to men what I wanted done to me (or at least I thought: since I’d never done any of it I didn’t really know).

The door opened for the third time.

“Go to the back yard and wait for me.”

As I did so I wondered if she was going to have me mow or lawn. The fear of something like that dampened my enthusiasm but I couldn’t bring myself to stop now.

She walked out. Dressed in a pullover top, cut-off jeans, and cheap rubber sandals, “flip flops” my mother used to call them. She’d always been dressed casually before but I’d been too hyped up to really notice the actual clothes.

She went over to a pick-nick table made of greenish wood.

“Sit here. Put your right hand’s palm down on the table.”

As I complied I noticed a wooden ruler in her hand.

“You are to keep your hand flat. I’m going to give you ten strokes. If that is too much for you leave and don’t come back.”

I barely had time to steel myself before the first slap hit. But it wasn’t that bad. At first. By the fifth stroke it really stung. My fingers felt like I might not be doing much with them tomorrow but it was almost over. I thought. An eleventh stroke hit me. A twelfth. With the thirteenth she turned the ruler so the edge cut into my fingers.

I yanked my hand away.

When I realized what I’d done I wanted to cry. I’d failed and would have to leave. But when I looked at her she looked pretty pleased.

“Don’t worry, you weren’t supposed to be able to take the last one. Once you got past the first ten you’d passed the test. The others were to teach you that no matter what I say I’m going to do I can still do whatever I want.”

“You have one last test. Come with me.” Shortly we were back in the room whose corner I’d knelt in. This time there was a big wicker plantation style chain in the center. She sat in it.

“Come here, may kneel in front of me. Remember you still aren’t to speak.”

So excited I was trembling I did.

“You have no idea how many men want to be where you are now. But they don’t really want it badly enough. They don’t really want to serve.

“The first day you proved you were willing to work for you place in my service. Yesterday you showed enough determination to withstand boredom which was a much harder test. Today you had your first taste of pain. I like hurting men. If you hadn’t been able to take it you wouldn’t be suitable for me. This is your last test.

“You won’t think it hard when I tell you but it will take all of your willingness work work and to keep on even if you get bored or tired.

“I am very, very slow to orgasm. Your last test is to satisfy me with your tongue. You probably think this is a big treat.” She was right about that.

“But it will take longer than you think. If you manage it we’ll do all the things we wrote to each other about. Otherwise, you won’t have made the grade.”

Standing up she pulled off her top and dropped her shorts. She sat back down. Gesturing at her cunt she said “Get to work, slave.”

She was right. It was long. It was wonderful at first. Then it took all my determination to keep going. At the end it was wonderful again. And then I was hers.

***

What this story says to me more than anything is that Richard is most definitely not a wannabe sub. He is the REAL DEAL. And it also tells me that he is truly deserving of the title, Submissive Savant.

In the very near future I will be featuring another “fantasy” penned by Richard. A bit different than this one. Quite intriguing and of interest to more than a few of my callers and readers.

xo, Angela