It was 6:00am and the slave was still lying on the mattress in a corner of the room when Mistress Marquesa walked into the room. She wore a white sleeveless blouse and a white mini skirt which betrayed the flaming red underwear she had on. With a pair of transparent short spiked heel ankle boots.
The slave rushed to greet her on all fours as he had been instructed to and went straight to kiss the toe of her pointed boots.
“Stop there and crawl slave, I hate to find you still in bed.”
“I am not in a whipping mood today, but you will suffer just the same.
Lie on your back slave.” She commanded. Read more…
It started with a wrong number.
It was a typical late summer’s night in New York: sultry, hot and humid. It had just rained, but the night was clear now and the bright light of the Moon snuck down between the rooftops and kissed the glistening, wet streets. As the special limo carrying my most beloved, adored, and worshiped Mistress Marquesa and myself, Her submissive, pliant, obedient, pink lingerie clad slave/slut girl Danielle careened downtown, I could see that the city was indeed alive, despite the obtrusive heat and very late hour. 
Clark was livid. Not that this was an unusual state for him to be in. Not at all. That was, ironically enough, really at the root of the current problem. Of course, with Clark, there was ALWAYS a problem, or a crisis or a situation, or SOMETHING that he (and ONLY he) could repair and set to right. This was because Clark was one of those self appointed “General Manager of the Universe” types who felt that no one else was really capable or competent enough to get the job done, and done right; whatever that job was. He was a stereotypical hard-charger who would never admit to meeting his match – even if he had! He was about to have his male ego’s perfect track record disrupted, however, and here is where our story begins. Here is where Clark’s reign as “Lord and Master of All He Surveys” would end, and he wouldn’t even know it. 
“Harlot!”
