by not so wiley coyote

D.H. Lawrence claimed the novel was the greatest invention since the telescope because it wouldn’t let you tell lies and put them over. To get you to believe what happened in Florida may take a novel. I’m having some problems believing some of it myself.

Remember the bit in Tracie’s Journey to the Hookers Ball where Mistress Marquesa makes Tracie kiss Her shoes at the check-in counter? It scared me enough to mention it to Mistress in one of our phone conversations. She was jokingly accusing me of scaring away new subbies with my first two Coyote stories–of making Her seem too domineering. “How can you say that after what you put poor Tracie through?” was my response (it amazes me how quickly I can get in trouble sometimes). I was absolutely certain that that kind of behavior in public was not for me.

Well, guess who kissed whose pointy black toe in the dining room of a hotel whose name you’d recognize even if you live in Peabody, Kansas. That’s right, your bushy tailed correspondent here. Not only that, but I did it spontaneously— without being asked or told. Actually, I asked Her permission to do it. And after only two glasses of Chardonnay, which I’d be happy to demonstrate sometime (at your expense) is not enough to impair my thinking or cause me to indulge in behavior which could get me banned for life from all rooms with crystal bigger than your fist in their chandeliers.

How did the Coyote tend up on his knees in the         Room kissing Mistress Marquesa’s shoe? If you think that’s an interesting question, imagine how interested I am in knowing the answer. What follows is what I’ve figured out so far.

It wasn’t hypnosis. Although she hypnotized me easily, I’m convinced of that. I’d have done it if Mistress Marquesa didn’t even know how to spell hypnosis, let alone practice it. She needs hypnosis about as much as a grizzly needs deodorant. It’s a definite enhancement, but hardly necessary for Her to get the job done.

I did it because it was fun. And it really was. It was a Monday night and the room was almost deserted, so the risk wasn’t as hair-raising as it sounds. I did it because I thought She’d like it. She loved it. It made Her laugh, and god how I love Her laugh. We were like a couple of kids being naughty in a stuffy restaurant for kicks, which is exactly what we were.

“I’m a Dominant Woman, for Chrissake!” as She delicately put it in one of our phone conversations when She caught me whining about something She did or didn’t do. I did it because She truly is. When you’re with Her, pleasing Her is incredibly rewarding. And submissive behavior pleases Her. You get a smile, a laugh, a touch—immediate feedback that makes you crave more. Pretty soon, you’re like a rat in an experiment, banging away as fast as you can at the bar to get that wonderfully pleasant reward. There’s nothing phony about Her. Submission really turns Her on. And if you don’t find turning on a Darla Crane lookalike–with a laugh that makes you want to give up everything and move to Tampa–intensely stimulating, well, maybe you ought to give that sex change operation some serious thought.

I had no idea how emotionally high She made me until I was on the plane back. That’s when I finally crashed. As I told Her, Her influence is good to about 20,000 feet. We had talked some about Her experiences in D/S, and she had mentioned the high that it gave Her, and the downside–the low that followed. If she hadn’t told me about that, I would have thought I was coming down with something. I was suddenly exhausted–emotionally drained and depressed. They were putting the chairs on the tables, and I didn’t want the party to be over. And I hated to think how long it might be before the next one. I was coming down with something all right–Mistress withdrawal.

I did it because she deserves it–she’s an absolutely delightful person; vibrant, complex and about as Satanic as Vampirella–and at least as sexy. I did it to thank Her for making me feel safe enough to submit to Her. I did it to show Her that my submission to Her was real and complete. And, god, how I’d love to do it again tonight. If you hear me howling at the moon instead, now you know why. Coyote misses his Mistress.

My first clue that this time was going to be different was the dog. She had instructed me to walk straight in when she opened the door and kneel down with my eyes closed. Then she told me to follow Her on all fours without raising my head. I was admiring Her ankles and gorgeous spike heels, a little disappointed at the way Her slit skirt mostly hid Her legs and thinking of the last time I was in a similar position with the Mistress that I mentioned in Not-so-wilv’s Condition One Week Later. I was wondering how my little buddy the pug was doing as we went up the stairs–carpeted, thank heaven.

That’s when I saw the biggest dog I’ve ever seen, watching me from his cushion by the fireplace. I hadn’t even noticed him–a full size Great Dane–till then. He hadn’t moved or made a sound when I rang and came in, which was a little scary in itself. But the look he was giving me was a whole lot scarier. “If it were up to me, bud, you’d leave here as table scraps,” he was telling me with his eyes. “The only thing between you and the morgue is the voice that keeps me motionless and quiet here.

The same one that has you acting like a smaller, much less elegant version of me.”

“Oh, oh,” I thought to myself. Mick Jagger said “the way to tell the men from the boys is by the size of their toys”.  If with dommes it’s by their size of their dogs, this little Coyote could be in big trouble.

I followed Her into a softly lit room and heard Her close the door behind me. ‘You’re a good boy,” she said. “Some men try to sneak a peek, and I hate that. Close your eyes and get up on your knees.”

I felt Her hand under my chin. “All right,” she said. “Open your eyes.” I did. She was bending down, so my first look at Mistress Marquesa was directly into Her cleavage, maybe a foot from my eyes. Stunning is an overused term. I knew that the moment I opened my eyes because I was. Then I saw Her face and hair above me. She immediately reminded me of Darla Crane. I went from merely nervous to shock in a heartbeat.

This is what you get for chasing cars, you stupid Coyote I told myself. You’ve gone and caught yourself a fucking Ferrari! Now just what the hell do you think you’re can do with it? You’re so far out of your league, this could be embarrassing.

It never was. Mistress Marquesa is a superlative diagnostician. She listens better than any physician I’ve ever been to. And she’s a fantastic specialist in external medicine. She picked up physical clues to my responses quicker than I did. By the time I figured out I was responding to a tune she was playing, she was already a dozen bars into it.

Somebody gave Her a conductor’s baton for Her collection in recognition of that ability. She found a doorway to my submissive side that was a joy to venture through. Kissing Her foot was the least I could do to show my appreciation for that.

That’s as close as I can come to explaining how Coyote came to be sitting in the departure lounge at gate 81 Tuesday morning, bright-eyed and looking foolishly happy in a big new collar. I hope it is believable.

She had given me fair warning in the audios, “Turn off this recording now if you are not prepared to be hypnotized and to be given life-changing suggestions, that you will follow.” is part of Her standard warning.

I knew She was right. Coyote’s life had changed, and will continue to change under her influence.

Book X of The Odyssey is about Circe, she who could change men to animals and who Homer called, “the loveliest of Goddesses”.
Fitzgerald, in his excellent translation, gives that chapter the wonderful title, “The Grace of the Witch.”

Circe is alive and well and living in Florida.  And Coyote has felt the grace of the Witch.