“Tell me what brought you here,” Goddess Marquesa said. I shuffled nervously in my seat and took a sip of the drink she had poured for me, my throat suddenly dry.
“I want…I yearn to experience genuine slavery,” I answered.
She smiled, her green eyes flashing a mixture of amusement and understanding. “Yes, I can sense that,” she replied. “But why me? We have never met, never spoken. This seems rather impulsive. I am very flattered, of course, but this is a serious step to take on a whim…”
“It’s not a whim,” I interrupted brusquely, then immediately softened my tone in contrition. “I’ve been submissive all my life, but never indulged in anything but fantasy. It was in that spirit that I went to the website where I first saw you. From the beginning you thrilled me like no one I had ever encountered before.”
“Why?” she asked.
I shuffled uncomfortably again. “I confess…I don’t entirely know. Your voice…your face…your body…your personality. All together there is something bewitching about you. Surely I’m not the only man who has felt it….”
She laughed, sending a delicious shiver down my spine. “No,” she said, pursing her lips coyly. “No certainly not.”
“I have interacted with Mistresses in the past,” I continued, “and the feelings were very pleasant, sometimes very powerful. But the relationships never lasted. I don’t know why. I sense that you can change that, that you have the power to bind me so that I can’t escape. I feel passionately that I was meant to be owned by one woman, I just need to find one able to subjugate me. I believe that with your hypnotic power, you could be the one to do so.”
She smiled enigmatically when I had finished. “I think you have the wrong idea,” she said. “Just because we are both blonds, don’t confuse me with Glinda the Good Witch. Hypnosis is not magic. I can’t turn you into something you are not. And genuine slavery might prove something very different that what you imagine. You should be careful what you wish for.”
“I am prepared for whatever happens,” I declared boldly. “If I do not at least attempt to experience this, I will always wonder. Please…please try…”
“You are sure this is what you want?” she asked with a tone of finality. “I don’t contemplate taking a man’s freedom lightly.”
I swallowed nervously. “Yes,” I replied, “When can we begin?”
“We can begin right now.”
She reached out and took my hand, drawing it into her lap and placing it palm-up upon the sheer black stocking clinging to her thigh. “Just relax,” she said, cradling my hand with her left arm as the nail of her right index finger slowly traced the lines of my palm.
We talked. She asked questions about my life and told me about hers, all the while maintaining the gentle contact with my hand. My mind was split, half of it engaged with her words, half of it lost in the feeling of my hand resting against her gorgeous thigh, the exquisite thrill of her elegantly shaped finger tickling the sensitive nerves of my palm. We were so close that her perfume clouded my head. The warm moist air of her breath caressed my face, its delectable aroma filled my lungs. My eyes traveled lovingly over her lips, throat, and breasts, never for an instant leaving the curves of her body or the mesmerizing pools of her green eyes. Every nerve in my body was electrified, every cell seemed ablaze with desire. I had never felt so alive or so aroused.
After a while (I am not sure how long- thirty minutes? An hour?) my arousal morphed into a kind of euphoria. I was hearing the Goddess’s words without really comprehending them, they registered in my mind as feelings rather than ideas. At some point my eyes closed and I entered a deep hypnotic sleep.
“One…two…three!” Her voice summoned me back to full consciousness. “That first session went very well,” she declared.  Though I could not remember what had transpired, I was full of a warm sense of well-being. “We will do this once a week from now on.”
“And this will make me your slave?” I asked.
“We will see…” she answered inscrutably. “You will have to trust me…”
I did trust her, and our sessions continued for several months. It was no hardship. Each meeting was like a dream within a dream. I would enter a haze of lust and longing, savoring her closeness and the feeling of her touch, then slip into a warm fog of total relaxation, emerging refreshed and rejuvenated when she summoned me back from trance. She placed no demands or restrictions on me, so I was free to fantasize about her constantly when we were apart. I spent hours on my knees in front of her image, stroking myself to earth shattering climax, but could never slake my desire.
Still, however, I remained unsatisfied and grew impatient. I had been thoroughly seduced, but saw no sign that I had been enslaved. My passion for Goddess Marquesa was amazingly intense, but the difference from what I had experienced in the past was one of degree, not kind.
“Please,” I finally asked at the end of another session, “you have been conditioning me for so long. When will you finally show me what it is to be your slave?”
Goddess Marquesa smiled, as if she had been waiting for this moment. “All right,” she answered, her tone indicating a willingness to be reasonable, “we can move on to the next phase. Go home and await my orders. We will see if my conditioning has had its proper effect.”
I left feeling more excited than I had been since childhood. It was like the anticipation before coming down to the tree on Christmas morning. In my mind I imagined that she would call the next day with a command, and that upon hearing it I would spontaneously obey, like a robot being programmed by its designer or a zombie bound by the will of its master.
Instead I encountered silence. Weeks went by with no word from her. I missed our weekly sessions, and in their absence my lust for her increased. I masturbated until my cock became red and sore, but still felt unresolved yearning for her voice, her touch.
Finally, on April 14, a package arrived in the morning mail at the accounting firm where I work. It was from her, and contained tax documents for her and ten of her friends. A short note read: Call me for your instructions, slave ~GM. Seeing the word “slave” set my pulse racing. I immediately dialed the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Goddess.”
“Who is this?”
“It is your slave, Goddess,” I said, crestfallen at not being recognized. “What are your instructions?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” she asked. “File returns for my friends and I by the deadline.”
“But the deadline is tomorrow,” I protested.
“Then you had better hurry.”
I was disappointed. Not by the onerous task, but by the feeling (or lack thereof) that it inspired. I had thought that once she gave me a direct order I would feel compelled to obey, but already my first impulse had been to complain.
She sensed my hesitation on the other end of the line. “If you obey, there will be a reward,” she offered.
This excited me. I was still too far gone in lust for her to spurn such a chance. “What reward?” I asked.
“Whatever you choose,” she declared.
“A kiss,” I blurted. “I need to taste your lips…”
“Very well…a kiss. Get to work, slave.”
April 14 is always the hardest night of the year, and she had made it twice as hard. But the idea that I might taste her kiss gave me strength that I had never possessed. By midnight the next day I collapsed from exhaustion, but I smiled as darkness took me, anticipating the feeling of my mouth pressed to hers.
She did not call the next day, or the next. I went to her house, but it was dark and no one answered the bell. Days passed, then weeks. Frustration gave way to resentment, and resentment to despair.
Finally, in mid May, I called her number for the thousandth time, expecting nothing but incapable of resisting the urge. To my disbelief, she answered.
“Hello?” The sound of her voice set my heart racing.
“Goddess Marquesa?” I asked, unable to hide the frustration in my tone, “where have you been?”
“Who is this?” The question expressed irritation.
“It is your slave….I filed the returns on time.”
“Oh…..yes, that’s good,” she said nonchalantly.
I paused, my mouth slightly open in disbelief. “What of my reward?” I asked.
“What reward?”
Another pause, this one longer. “You said if I did the task I could choose my reward.”
“Did I?” She sounded incredulous. “Well, if I did, I forgot.” I waited for her to continue, but there was no further explanation.
“I…I…” my throat had tightened, my voice became constrained and halting. Finally I gave up and fell silent.
“Is there anything else?” she asked.
I held the phone to my ear and tried to force myself to breathe. I stuttered, “No…yes…I mean…” Composing myself, I finally found the voice to say, “Thank you, Goddess.” As the words left my mouth I was shocked. My surprise was not only at what I had said, but that I genuinely meant it. I was seized by a pang of utter and heartfelt gratitude.
“You’re welcome, pet,” she replied, and the line went dead.
What followed were the most torturous weeks my life. I lived in exile, with no word from or contact with Goddess Marquesa. Despite this absence, my yearning for her reached a maddening crescendo. No amount of onanism could exorcise the demons of my desire. At the same time, my existential despair was total. My quest to experience genuine slavery seemed hopeless.
One Monday night in mid-June, my phone rang. I looked up at my bedside clock: it read 3:30 AM. I picked up the receiver. “Come to me now,” her voice commanded. Though I was pleased, I could not help being disenchanted. I did not feel an uncontrollable compulsion to obey. My joy at finally hearing her voice was matched by my desire to get enough sleep for work the next day.
“It’s late,” I answered.
“Come,” she repeated. “If you obey you will be rewarded. You wanted a kiss, yes?”
I stumbled out of bed and dressed quickly. I arrived at her door at 4 AM. She let me in wearing a black negligee and little else, her arms and legs bare. Her house had just hosted a raucous party. The guests were gone, but spilled beverages, waste paper, and ashes were strewn everywhere. Stains smeared the walls, floors, and counter top.
“Get to work, slave,” she ordered. “Cleaning equipment is in the hall closet. You can fill as many garbage bags as you need, but make sure that the dustbin is still full when you are done. Otherwise you may do as you please- just make the place spotless.”
She withdrew to her bedroom and I began cleaning. The work was excruciating. Stains clung stubbornly to tile and chrome, forcing me to bear down with all my strength and weight. Narrow spaces required crouching, bending, and crawling on all fours. As eight o’clock rolled around the house looked presentable, but I was in agony. All of my muscles ached, my eyes were red and tear-streaked and my lungs burned from caustic chemicals. My hair and clothes were soaked with sweat, and my hands were covered with painful blisters.
She walked out of her bedroom, yawning and stretching sleepily but still utterly gorgeous to behold. “Not bad, slave,” she allowed, surveying the scene of my labor. “You have earned a reward.”
I began to rise from where I was still crouched on the floor, but she stopped me with an angry command. “Stay on your knees!”
“But…you said…you promised me a kiss,” I protested.
“Did I?” she asked. “Forget that. I have my own reward for you. Put the dustpan here,” she said, pointing to the floor before her feet.
I did as she directed.  She lifted her beautiful foot and placed it into the dirt and cigarette ash collected in the dustpan. Seating herself in a chair, she held out her filthy sole before my face.
“Lick me clean slave.”
I knelt before her, brows furrowed, mind reeling. The smell from her foot made me gag. I had thought that this moment would be different, that her conditioning would overcome any reflex I had to resist. But I felt no eagerness to obey, only disgust.
“Do it,” she commanded.
“But I don’t want to,” I complained.
She understood what I meant. “I warned you,” she said coldly. “You’re not in Kansas anymore. Do it now or leave this house and never call me again.”
Fighting my revulsion, I began. The taste was awful, the texture even worse. Several times I had to stop and compose myself to keep from vomiting. Working slowly, it took me a full thirty minutes to restore her foot to its pristine beauty. After what seemed like eternity, she commanded, “That’s enough, slave.”
It was just in time. I sprang to my feet and ran to the bathroom. For the next fifteen minutes I knelt by the bowl, retching in great, heaving geysers.
As my convulsions calmed I sensed her beside me. I don’t know how long she had stood over me as I puked.
“Is there something you want to say to me, slave?” she asked, as if this was the most natural question in the world.
Until that moment I had been completely lost in my own misery, but as soon as she spoke, it occurred to me that there was something I yearned to say. Part of me could not believe it was so, but the impulse was too strong to resist. The words bubbled out of me as spontaneously as what had spewed forth scant moments before.
“Thank you, Goddess!” I said. “Thank you.” This unleashed a flood of emotion. I began to sob, puke and drool spilling from the corner of my mouth as snot and tears ran down my face. Once again, what was most shocking was not what I said, but what I felt. I had detested what she made me do, but I could not help but feel grateful to her for making me do it.
“Think nothing of it, pet,” she said wryly. “Don’t forget to flush before you leave.”
I don’t remember clearly how I got home that morning. I skipped work without calling in sick and slept for 36 hours straight. On waking in the early afternoon I was physically revived but mentally disoriented. I paced in front of the phone, expecting her to call at any minute, debating with myself whether to call her. When I finally did break down and call I got a busy signal. Knowing that I would never get through did not stop me from calling another dozen times that night.
Days and weeks went by and my mood grew ever darker. At the best of times I was distracted and socially detached. On worse days I became surly and quick-tempered. . Coworkers began to give me a wide berth at the office. I saw the change but couldn’t care, my thoughts constantly of her, oscillating between yearning and resentment.
Finally I snapped. Late one July evening I made my way to her house. When she did not answer the door I threw myself against it madly, trying to force my way through. I had just picked up a rock with which to smash her window when the door opened and revealed her silhouette.
“I’ve been expecting you, pet. Come in.” She wore the same black negligee as the last night I had seen her, but this time it was over a silk bustier with matching stockings and garters. On her feet were bright red patent-leather stilettos. The sight of her stopped me in mid-rage. I dropped the rock and stumbled dazedly through her front door.
“You tricked me,” I accused as she shut the door behind me. “You said you would make me your slave, but you just planted a suggestion in my mind. You made it so that I can’t feel anything but gratitude for anything you do to me. That isn’t slavery. That is a cheap parlor trick.”
She laughed a deep sonorous laugh that deflated all my self-righteous anger. “You are so clueless it is rather sweet, pet,” she purred. “You simply don’t understand. But I can help you, I prepared for this moment.”
I made to protest, but she held up a hand to stop me. “Click your heels three times together and say, ‘There is no woman like Goddess Marquesa,’” she commanded.
I stood open-mouthed, nonplussed by this bizarre order. “Do it,” she reiterated.
I gazed at her as I carried out her instruction, clicking my heel three times while repeating the incantation. On the third recitation, a flood of images hit me like a thunderbolt. I remembered every detail of every session I had had with Goddess Marquesa. She had not conditioned me at all. She had led me through a series of relaxation exercises, that was all. The only post-hypnotic suggestion she had implanted concerned the ritual I had just performed, that doing so would unlock all my memories of what happened while I was hypnotized.
The force of this realization struck me hard in the gut. I fell to my knees, my heart racing, my collar suddenly too tight to allow in sufficient air.
“Do you understand now, pet?” Goddess Marquesa asked.
“Yes,” I gasped. “No matter what you do to me, no matter what promises you break, no matter what you refuse me, I will always feel grateful to You.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you are so wise, and so beautiful, and so strong. Oh…” my voice broke with emotion, “….so strong. Because I love You, Goddess.”
“And what does that make you?”
“Your slave,” I replied.
Tears had begun to flow once again down my face. I looked up at Goddess Marquesa from my knees, my features set in a mask of abject surrender.
“You see, my dear,” Goddess Marquesa said, her emerald eyes sparkling with triumph, “you had it in your power all along to become a slave. What do you have to say now?”
“Thank You, Goddess. Thank You, oh….oh Goddess….Thank You…”