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My Dearest Mistress Diana:

First off, I cannot thank you enough for the new wardrobe, which must have cost a fortune. I feel like a leather and PVC goddess and I got a new asymmetrical bob for a hairstyle fashionable enough to match. Even during a busy week of domme training (if only I could have taken the two weeks you suggested – my office schedule did not allow for that), I’m not sure I’ll get to wear all these dominatrix goodies, but I’ll try! If you’ll pardon my vulgarity, the bodysuit, particularly, practically makes me come simply from putting it on. Pulling my arms into the full length sleeves and tugging the crotch up snugly feels lovely and powerful. In the mirror, I look particularly lean and graceful in it. The smell of the leather is intoxicating – both elegant and animalistic. Primal. And I’ve put several submissives to work polishing both the leather and the PVC, and not only with their tongues. I love being spoiled, but you are truly too generous. I know you’re well heeled – domme pun intended – but pace yourself, my sweet Mistress.

How can I describe the feeling of near constant buzzing arousal I feel here? It’s sexual, of course, but in the broadest sense, and more than sexual too. Sensual really. I’ve never felt so healthy and alive. The lovely southwest air helps, and I’m eating and sleeping better than I have in years, even better than I was on Samantha’s strict diet and training regimen. She’d be pleased, I hope, that I’m keeping up my running and resistance training. They have a surprisingly nice fitness room here. But thanks to the circumstances, I’m getting a lot of free massages, manicures, pedicures, and other decadent attention as well.

To be instructed from Day One in wielding authority, discipline, cruelty, and benevolence. To discover the menace I can cast on a scared submissive with a passing glare or the warmth I can bathe them in with a hint of tenderness toward a new slave – it’s intoxicating, and highly addictive. I’ve known for years that I was switchable, but I think that I liked the limited parameters of being the sub because I didn’t have the imagination or steadiness of temperament to be a domme. I feel like I’m growing into it now, though.

At first, it feels almost like too much of a good thing – like being on a thrilling amusement park ride but unable to leave it. Seeing the subs cower when I walk by or enter a room brings out something fanatical and fascist in me that I suspected was there but never bloomed until now. Giving Six a harsh spanking or teasing him in bed was like the peanut-bowl appetizer to what I’m experiencing here.

I always knew that I was a control freak in the most fundamental sense. What I’m finding, and what scares me, is that I’m a genuine sadist as well. I actually like inflicting pain. Not grotesque evil pain. But controlled pain within a slave’s boundaries – taken, however, to the very limits of those boundaries. I like to see fear and sweat and trembling and chills and the occasional teardrop. I didn’t know that I harbored that desire to hurt someone. Terrifying in one sense. But also healthy, I suppose, to acknowledge and understand and explore.

My room is gorgeous. It looks out onto the hills and my heart simmers in the golden New Mexico light every morning and every evening. No wonder photographers and painters flock to this region. And the landscape is otherworldly.

The ranch is even larger than I imagined from your description, and the play equipment on Floor B2 more plentiful too. I don’t yet fully understand the financial arrangements, but they seem too good to be true. Fees from the submissives subsidize our stays – I get that – but it must cost a small fortune to own and run this place. How much could they be paying? I can’t imagine. And pity the poor sub that doesn’t have deep pockets.

Mistress Diana, I saw the video you sent of Six, Samantha, and that attractive African-American man. What can I say? I was shocked. I admit it. As much as I’ve grown in sophistication and imagination since we met, it was still quite something to see the man I’d once planned to marry sucking a cock while being strapon ass-fucked, and quite roughly at that, by a good and generally even-tempered mutual friend. But I do think that Six, like myself, has always been bi while only half-acknowledging it. (I don’t know if the predilection for not just men, but dark-skinned men, is new, but it’s interesting. I always thought he was just into Asians like me.) Beyond a little experimentation in college – and who hasn’t done that, right? – I’d never been with another woman until you made me yours. Now I can’t imagine not having you in my life – with the company of male and female slaves as well, of course. Still, to see Six with another man, and Samantha acting the domme so very aggressively. It was an eye opener.

I was also shocked at how skinny Six is, and that crazy but not unattractive buzzcut that he and the other fellow had. And was it the quality of the video or did I see some welts, bruises, and whip marks on both Six and Samantha? That doesn’t look like görükle escort your work. What’s going on? I hope you’ll fill me in at some point and explain the context of all this. Clearly, out here in domme paradise, I’ve missed a lot of commotion.

While it shocked me, though, the video also, predictably, excited the hell out of me. I’ve masturbated to it, I’ll admit, four times, and I don’t think it’s out of my system yet. If I told you how often I climax here, you’d laugh. You’d be amazed, or maybe you wouldn’t because you’ve been here several times yourself. The highest come count so far in one day was eight. It wouldn’t surprise me if I topped that, though.

I try to keep the mornings pretty vanilla: light breakfast, weights, run or stationary bike. Then sometimes a horseback ride. But the kink surrounds one even during these not very exotic activities. Naked or barely clothed slaves bringing me coffee and taking my dishes. And when I sign out my horse, I see and hear the pony-play types through the wooden slats of the barn. Not really my scene, but they do look like they’re having a fine time.

When I read in the great room or out on the patio, there are more slaves setting up my chair, pouring me fresh mint water, offering to be my footstool.(Remember the first time I saw that – when you ordered Sam to be my footstool at your apartment that first time Six and I came over?) All this attention is almost overwhleming sometimes – it could feel comical if it weren’t so stimulating. Not that everyone’s beautiful – various weights, body types, ages. But you’d be surprised, or I guess you wouldn’t, how sexy it can be to have a thin, athletic older man wearing only a thong ask if he can rub your neck while you read. There’s something moving about it, melancholy but beautiful. That need for human contact.

Or the stout but sweet woman who likes doing my nails and rubbing my feet. I wear that gold bikini you gave me and I could tell she wanted to move beyond my feet. I allowed her to kiss them, and then to kiss my shins and my thighs too. She looked pretty hopped up from that. I ordered her to take off her cutoff shorts. She looked frightened but obeyed. “Take my foot and rub it between your legs through your panties,” I improvised. I demanded that she do so harder and faster. “Now let me know when you’re about to come.” When she was, I told her to strip off her panties as well and to finish herself off. When she’d climaxed she thanked me, with tears in her eyes, and scurried off, presumably to her room on B1 crowded with subs in bunk beds awaiting their sessions. She’d ventured upstairs into the world of the mighty and I felt pleased to have rewarded her for it. How smug is that? But then that’s the way one starts thinking under such circumstances, isn’t it?

Then, of course, there’s Level B2 and the sessions, both the scheduled ones and the impromptu ones, the private ones and the public displays. Among these have been a half dozen sessions under Richard and Jennifer’s supervision, working on specific skills, as you suggested. They’re good patient teachers. I’ll never be a rope master or a suspension rigger – I had no idea how specialized and confusing all that could be. But at least trying it out helps me to appreciate those talents more. I don’t really have the patience for it. I mean, what am I, a structural engineer? But I do, if I say so myself, have a knack for the nuances of paddling, flogging, the use of different kinds of floggers, clamps, wax play, and so on. Practice makes perfect and I have a lot of work to do. Good thing I have a pretty much unlimited number of subs begging me to practice on them, so I’m getting a great deal of experience in this short week that’s flying by. And as you and others so often told me, the experience of being a sub now seems essential to being a dominatrix. How else to perceive intentional pain from unintentional, and the deep bliss beneath the outward discomfort.

I’m known here as Mistress Sharon, not Five, for obvious reasons. When in dommeville, you don’t use your slave designation. It feels strange to have my name back. I worried a bit at first that if I negotiated a multilingual literary contract for Luigi Vescano or something, my name might appear in some obscure trade publication and some sub would recognize me. But the ranch is built on plausible deniability. And besides, one of the luxuries I’ve allowed myself as a dominatrix is not to fret over every possible slim-chance contingency. And of course last names are nowhere to be found. What’s going to happen? Some slave marching into my office and insisting that I’m the lovely domme who flogged him in New Mexico? Who would believe him? He’d sound like a lunatic. Besides, as far as my colleagues know, I’m in the Turks and Caicos.

My favorite slave is Celeste. She submitted, per protocol, an application to me based on my online profile even before I’d arrived. She’s a pale redhead, a couple inches taller than me, and very skinny. You know I love skinny but she borders on unhealthy. Her skin marks bursa görükle escort up easily, so it’s a great challenge to discipline her without wounding her. Not that that’s even in her contract, which is very permissive. She’d allow the lash, caning, and all kinds of mayhem. But I don’t know if she realizes what that would mean, given her skin type and complexion.

We began, then, by emphasizing stress positions, bondage, verbal abuse, confession, humiliation, that sort of thing. To see her blush, either through a moment’s attention or a moment’s disgrace, is a thing of beauty, Mistress Diana, I must tell you. Good dommes borrow and great dommes steal, and I’ve stolen a great many tricks I learned from you. (But then you stole some from Mistress Cecelia and others, you told me, so I suppose one might see it as a passing of the torch.)

For instance, I had Celeste strip, walk over to the wall, put her hands behind her back, and hold a quarter against the wall by pressing her nose up against it. I restrained her arms and wrists behind her with a leather arm binder. Then I interrogated her about her experience, her fetishes, her fantasies. Bring back memories, Mistress? Remember when you made me spill my guts to you similarly?

If I sensed she was lying or holding back, I’d slap her ass, which, on her skin, literally left a little red hand print for a minute before fading into a more general patch of red. When I sensed she was being candid, I caressed her and softly encouraged her. If she kept the quarter on the wall, I’d let her orgasm before the end of the session, I told her. If she let it drop, she’d have to wait until the next session to even have the possibility of coming.

She told me about her high school days, after volleyball practice, locking her bedroom door, and in her undies tying herself as best she could to her desk chair, and tying a T-shirt around her face to serve as a gag. She would have blindfolded herself too except she wanted to look at her cotton- or silk-clad crotch as she squirmed and tried to “escape.” Eventually she’d get moist and finger herself to climax. Later, a college boyfriend would tie her up now and then but felt guilty and weird about it, even though she kept assuring him that it’s exactly what she wanted. She was convinced their breakup was due partly to his discomfort with the bondage play – well, that, and his addiction to soccer video games. A happy-go-lucky volleyball teammate junior year of college, on the other hand, was into bondage big time and became Celeste’s first serious love. They also engaged, as much as their budget would allow, in buying a little collection of latex and PVC wear.

They tried to keep the relationship going after graduation when the teammate deployed with the air force, but furlough visits from overseas weren’t enough to sustain them and they wisely let it go. Celeste got to keep the fetishwear, though.

As Celeste pursued her master’s in public health, she said, she’d tried to forget about her urges, but they’d, sure enough, come back and overwhelmed her. Self-bondage and online role play between homework problem sets quickly became tedious. That’s when she started searching for a real-life outlet and saw references to the Ranch.

“You poor sweetie,” I said. “You’ve been on a quest. I’m serious. I know how exhausting and frustrating it can be when you feel your identity is hovering just beyond your everyday world and you catch fleeting glimpses of it but can’t seem to take hold of it. How hard. How lonely.”

I kissed her cheek, and she started weeping, which is when the quarter fell from between her nose and the wall. Then she wept more.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, honey,” I said, genuinely distraught for her, the fleeting promise of orgasm receding from her like her bondage wish fulfillment had for all those years. “Another time, perhaps. . . . What did you bring with you? In that bag over there?”

She sheepishly retrieved the plastic shopping bag and brought it to me.

“Show me,” I said. She knelt on the floor and withdrew the few items as though they were precious treasures, refolding them neatly side by side on the cool tiled floor. Black latex leggings, stocking shaped, that covered the feet. A matching latex hood with eye, nose, and mouth holes and a cute hole in the back too for a ponytail. Latex gloves that would reach to her shoulders, or almost anyway.

“Let’s get you suited up, sweetie,” I said, shaking some baby powder into my hand for the always tricky but rewarding process. The hood went on first, and when I tugged the ponytail through the hole in back I did it a bit roughly. She let out a little “ouch” and I squeezed her nipple, saying that if I wanted to hear from her, I’d ask her a direct question. As I said, Mistress Diana, great dommes steal, and I suspect her twat moistened at that interaction the same way mine did when you first diddled and disciplined me in the cafe restroom oh those many months ago.

“Wearing that hood, you’re so anonymous,” I said, well knowing the masochistic bursa eskort joy of such anonymity. “You could be anyone. You could be noone. It kind of strips you of your personality and dignity as a person, doesn’t it.” She nodded. The truth was, her glistening eyes and the long red lashes, and her delicate slightly chapped lips through the mouth hole had a lot of personality, as did the slightly pitiful audible breaths as the crazy-tight latex flattened her nose. As we rolled on her leggings and gloves, I continued to taunt her.

“Maybe we should just give you a number instead of a name. As if you weren’t really a person at all but just some practically inanimate little bitch whore, interchangeable with a thousand other little bitch whores. Would you like that?”

“If that would please you, Mistress Sharon, then we should do that.” She was adorable and her quickened breaths showed that the idea was more than a little attractive to her, as it was not long ago to a little slut you decided to call Five.

“We’ll leave your name alone for now, Slave Celeste, but if you do well during our sessions this week, I’ll give you a randomly generated code instead of a name. We’ll make it a little ceremony. But again, that’s only if you obey and perform up to expectations, which, judging by your clumsiness with the quarter, I sort of doubt you will.”

“I will, Mistress. I won’t disappoint you.” She was so eager to please, like a school girl, but sadder and more savvy. But, alas, I hadn’t asked her a question, had I? So I slapped her hard twice across the face, secretly hoping the latex hood would buffer the effects on her delicate skin. People don’t know how much we dommes actually worry, do they. “Don’t speak out of turn, slave, or we won’t even make it to tomorrow’s session much less the end of the week.” She cried and sniffled from the pain and the surprise of the slaps, and nodded dejectedly.

I brought her over to the bondage bench, inclined it to 45 degrees, laid her down on her back, and rigged her wrists behind her head, the cuffs attached to a hook at the bench’s base. I spread her legs wide and attached a spreader toward the bottom of her thighs. I took some clamps from a convenient basket (was ever a dungeon so well stocked?) and attached them in twin lines either side of her from nipple sweeping inward to the tight flesh where belly meets hipbone. Then I attached the final two clamps to her outer pussy lips, noting the adorable red hair stubble. I hadn’t tied down her forehead so she had the luxury, or the anxiety, of lifting her head slightly and seeing the crop-rows of clamps descending from her tiny breasts like painful racing stripes to her moist and tangy-smelling excited cunt.

“You’ve had this done to you before, I take it?”

“No,” she said. “Well, on my tits, yes, once, with clothes clips. Not like this, though. And not down there.”

“Are you OK?”

“Yes, Mistress. Thank you for asking.”

“Then we need to make it hurt more. You’re not here to be OK. You’re here to be disciplined, you little bitch. . . . Do you know what hurts more than having clamps put on?”

“No.”

“Having clamps taken off. Of course, if we took them off right away, it wouldn’t hurt too bad. So we’re not going to. We’re going to leave them on. Furthermore, I think I’ve heard enough of your opinions for today.” I alcohol-wiped a large bit gag, lifted her head while I slipped the strap around the base of her skull, then tightened the contraption between her teeth.

“You could still hum a tune, though. How about ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame’?” She looked at me, flustered, wondering if I were serious. Sound familiar, Mistress Diana? Remember making me sing ‘God Bless America’ with a clamp on my tongue, and that nasty nose restraint too? God, you came down hard on me for such an early session. Made an impression though.

“Well are you going to sing or not?”

She croaked a few notes and I brought a riding crop down on the top of her left thigh just above the latex legging.

“Out of tune. Try again.”

She did, to predictable effect and another cropping, this time on the right thigh. Another five minutes of Submissive Idol ensued until the crops brought high little screams. And by then it was time to unclamp her, slowly, bit by bit, tit to cunt. She screamed as the blood rushed to the suddenly unpinched flesh. “Scream louder if you like,” I suggested, well knowing that nothing brought forth a slave’s cathartic hysteria like a slave’s hysteria. “The room is quite well soundproofed. I don’t think you’ll bother anyone.”

I unbound her and brought her over to a mirror to admire the angry red tracks the clamps had left on her torso.

“You’re beautiful,” I said, and I meant it. The red marks, combined with the hood, leggings, gloves, and gag, gave the aura of a lovely, thin, vulnerable alien. “Enjoy the view a moment longer. I’ll be right back.” Then I took that view from her, blindfolding her. I secured her arms straight back behind her again in the arm binder. I marched her over to a hook and chain contraption hanging from the ceiling, attached the clip at the end to the end of her arm binder, and yanked on a pulley until the chain went up, lifting her arms behind her and forcing her forward. I yanked again until, to protect her shoulders, she had to drop forward more, exposing her beautiful delicate bottom.

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