A Night In Britta's Den
by Lizbeth Dusseau, F/f bdsm
There's no better way for a submissive to relieve the anguish of a hard day than a session with her demanding Mistress
 

Copyright (c) 1995/2006 by Lizbeth Dusseau, all rights reserved

After sharing soup, crackers, and some stilted conversations, the two weary detectives parted with a tender but brief goodbye. The blond Robin watched her partner Leslie walk toward her truck.  Her brunette friend then stopped to look at her, until Robin was by her own car and getting in.  That  protective gesture was rather sweet, Robin thought. But then that was Leslie’s way, even if Robin hated the idea that her partner thought she needed protection right now.

            After watching Leslie drive away, Robin drove up town, to a seedier side of the city where there were dank apartments, empty office buildings and a smattering of light industrial factories on their last legs.  Discarded paper fluttered in the streets, while upended trash cans cluttered the sidewalks. There was an eerie, lonesome feeling about this part of town; even drug dealers and hookers steered clear, simply because there was no one with money to buy what they offered.  A few sad people wandered about on their way from one lonely moment of their lives to another, somewhere in one of the squalid flats above ground level. 

            The little flat that Robin sought was up three flights, although taking those stairs was like walking into another world, away from the menial one on the street, and far away from her normal fast-paced life. Robin saw from the street that the light was on; Britta was home. She breathed a sigh of relief and began the long trek.

            Minutes later, Robin’s knock on the door produced a vague reply, which was enough encouragement to walk on in, even though she wasn’t quite sure what the woman had mumbled. It didn’t really matter, Robin would go in regardless. 

            Once inside, she looked around the expansive apartment searching for what she wanted. Didn’t take long to feel the sweet sexual warmth rush into her thighs; the moment she smelled the incense burning, her craving ignited—a conditioned response, she supposed, after so many sessions in Britta’s den.

            “You look like shit,” the woman said from the fog of smoke around her.

            Robin looked up to see the object of her search reclining on a daybed in one corner of the room. “You’ll take me tonight, please?” Robin asked with a hopeful half-smile on her lips.

            The woman stared at her, as if she was reading a page from the book Robin wrote inside her heart.

            “Of course, my little Robbie,” she answered, noting her guest’s thinly disguised distress.  “You need it especially hard tonight, perhaps?
            Robin nodded.

            The incense was so thick it was beginning to burn her nostrils. She breathed it deeply, thinking there was a trace of cigarette smoke in the vapors, along with the scent of some mystical eastern herbal concoction.  She breathed deeply again, letting the smoke soothe her into that other side of her life.  The heat between her legs expanded, burning hot and demandingly.

            “You should have called first, but I’ll take you,” Britta said curtly. “Sit on the stool.” She pointed to the space in front of her.

            Robin spied the familiar piece resting innocently between her and Britta.  It was a little round thing; its needlepoint cushion reasonably comfortable, but clearly humbling. The stool was so low that when she sat on it, her legs were above her bottom and naturally spread wide apart. Of course, this was part of Britta’s design; the position required was unabashedly submissive.

            Sitting on stool now, however, in jeans, not naked or in a revealing skirt, the position didn’t have quite the right effect. Her cunt would be spread out and exposed if she were dressed properly for a meeting with Mistress Britta.

            “Working?” the Domme asked, noting how Robin was dressed.

            “Yes.”

            “Too much for you?”

            “I just need to forget everything for a while. An old friend of mine is dead.”

            The Domme almost broke out in a tender smile, but like so many things with her, it was too subtle to know if she was exhibiting any affection. The woman remained reclined on her couch, looking like a haughty queen bee. Her strawberry blonde hair was piled on top of her head, although it was starting to fall down in a messy disarray. Maybe it was bedtime and it didn’t matter what she looked like anymore. Britta’s lips were as red as an old brick, and she gave off an ancient scent even though she wasn’t very old.  She could be arrogant or kind, depending on the need, but the look she gave Robin now was pure disgust.

            “You’ll take off your clothes and find something I’d like to see you wear,” she ordered, waving Robin to a corner of the room, where a massive wardrobe stood with its doors wide open and garments spilling out around the floor.   

            Robin rose to her feet and walked to the wardrobe, disrobing quickly. There was just her blouse, bra, jeans and panties to shed, and of course her shoes and socks.  Once naked, she felt a chill in the air that gave her goosebumps.  A slender woman with gentle curves, Robin’s best assets were her shapely legs, and perky breasts that, though not large, stood out full and round. Her large nipples were frequently so hard they poked shamelessly through almost any garment.  Robin knew Britta would admire her, even though she wouldn’t say a word. Still, Robin liked knowing that she pleased her mistress this way.

            Reaching inside the mass of clothes inside the wardrobe, Robin pulled out a red leather bustier, thinking Britta would be especially pleased with the choice. She let her mistress see what she’d picked, lowering her eyes submissively while she waited for the woman’s approval.

            “That’ll be enough,” Britta said as she watched, focused on every move the blonde woman made.

            While in front of the mirror, Robin pulled the two sides of the bustier around her middle so that they nearly met; then she laced them as tightly as she could, feeling an erotic swell inside her loins, as the self-imposed bondage began to have its effect.

            “Pull it tighter, Robbie, will you?” Britta called out.

            Robin tugged harder, pulling at her breasts so that they were pushed up to the top of the bustier, having no where else to go.  Her nipples sat just over the edge of the leather, while below, the bustier stopped just past her waist.  The soft swell of Robin’s hips and the lovely ‘V’ of her cunt radiated an aura of erotic need, matching what rumbled through her needy body.

            “You can sit now,” she was instructed.

            “You will have my ass, won’t you?” Robin asked anxiously, as she returned to the needlepoint stool.

            “I’ll have what I want,” Britta answered, haughtily.  “And then maybe I’ll give you what you need. You are unscheduled tonight, and you know how intrusions piss me off.”

            On the stool again, with her legs spread wide, Robin’s cunt was the way the mistress wanted, unprotected and vulnerable, open for her to view. The labia were naturally parted so that Britta could see the deep purple folds of skin and the dark cunt hole. Wisps of blonde hair around the pretty, spread out pussy glistened with female dew.

            “Put your arms behind you,” the mistress ordered, “wrists together.”

            Finally rising from the lounge, Britta gathered her cuffs and rope from a shelf beside her.  She was a large firm woman with massive breasts that swung loosely in front of her, while her hips and crotch moved seductively before Robin’s hungry gaze.  Robin could see the woman’s pussy through the filmy purple caftan, a nest of dark thick pubic curls, which Robin remembered well with her face pressed firmly against the warm flesh. It would please her to service the woman again tonight, although she hoped that other things would happen first: what she came for and what she needed most.

            The mistress pulled Robin’s arms together tightly as she clamped cuffs around her wrists, and then bound them together with rope.  As she sat on the needlepoint stool, Robin’s thrust about before her and jiggled, looking erotically alluring. The awkward position hurt, but it was a good hurt. Plus, it served its intended purpose, reminding the submissive of the humble attitude she must assume inside this flat.

            “This is for me,” Britta said, taking a crop from the wall. The long black riding crop ended with a loose leather end of thin tied leather cords.  A dozen biting cuts landed in succession against Robin’s tits, with the pain instantly horrendous and bringing her to tears. An impassioned groan escaped her lips, which was much more than Britta wanted from her sub. She always demanded quiet, just the sounds of leather and skin during correction—at least at the beginning. How much noise Robin made when the session ended didn’t matter all that much.

            “Don’t make me gag you, little Robbie,” Britta purred. “I want to hear the leather when it hits your tits.”  She ran the crop along the red lines that now appeared where the skin had once been flawless. They were marked enough to last for a few days. Robin winced feeling the crop dig into her soft flesh. This poking and prodding hurt as much as the crop hitting her skin. Just for good measure, Britta struck each breast one more time and Robin didn’t utter a sound. 

            Putting the crop under her arm, the mistress bent down and took each exposed nipple, rolling it between her thumb and index fingers, bearing down and using her sharp fingernails to pierce the flesh. Robin winced at first, then finally squealed when the pain was too much to bear in silence. When Britta let the nipples go, the throbbing sensation that followed was as biting as the pinching, although the pain vanished quickly and Robin breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

            “You’re feeling like a poor, pitiful baby tonight, aren’t you, little one?” Britta purred. “Stand up.” She stepped back to watch her submissive struggle to rise.  It was almost impossible for Robin to pull herself out of the lowly position, without her arms and hands to help her. When she was finally on her feet, Britta shoved her towards an apparatus at the far end of the room: a waist high beam, which had been covered in leather, and included at least a half dozen places to fasten a submissive to the structure, at the bottom and down the sides. 

            “Bend over,” Britta said, poking Robin with the riding crop.

            As she’d done in past sessions, Robin bent at her waist and placed herself over the beam. Then Britta moved in securing her bottoms-up, leaving the rear cleft exposed. Being afraid she might fall, Robin didn’t dare move. She wished that Britta would untie her arms so she could better balance. Although, she would never suggest such a thing.

            Britta flailed on Robin’s bottom with a dozen strokes from the riding crop, then after pausing briefly, she laid on a dozen more.

            As Robin’s bottom began to burn, she squirmed as much as she dared. Even as much as it hurt, Robin knew the punishment wasn’t yet enough to satisfy the urgent need that brought her here. They were just getting started. Britta next chose a flogger made of at least two dozen shreds of eighteen-inch long leather, bundled together and woven at one end into a thick handle. This whip could be ruthless or affectionate, but it was always capricious.

            “You want this in the worst way, don’t you, my darling?” Britta said, as she dangled the cool leather against her submissive’s skin.  Robin felt the sensation on her back, along her already reddened ass and down her warm thighs. Turning the flogger around, Britta pressed the thick handle against Robin’s pussy, as if she planned to force it inside.  Although it wasn’t likely to fit, the way the butt end moved against Robin’s nether lips, the resulting massage made her hips shift back and forth to maximize the feeling.

Abruptly standing back, Britta observed the view critically, thinking that Robin was certainly a well-built woman with physical assets perfect for her needs. Her bottom was well-rounded, the cheeks perfectly shaped, and her cunt seemed larger than some; the cleft full, a rosy color, and beckoning to be punished, no different than the way the rest of Robin’s body cried out to be abused.

            Britta landed a number of blows with the flogger against Robin’s back, nearly a dozen landing across the submissive’s shoulders, then she shifted her aim back to the firm, red buttocks.

            Robin took in the soft blows, feeling the arousal in her soar. But this was not enough, not this night. She wanted to be knocked out of her thoughts, driven to a Neverneverland on the wings of this leather instrument.  If it flailed her for hours, she’d be happy; she needed a long hard session.

            Just as Robin hoped, Britta was only warming up. She soon changed techniques and a stream of fiery blows from the flogger cascaded across Robin’s shoulders again. The woman’s aim then lowered to Robin’s bottom for more hard abuse. The mistress made the flogger sing each time it struck, and each time she repeated the beating, Robin was driven deeper into her absent state, the welcoming pain purging her anguish. When the mistress nipped her anal cleft with the flogger’s thin thongs, Robin shrieked, almost losing her balance against the beam as she twisted to the side.

            After one particularly vicious blow that almost sent her to the floor, Britta paused long enough to remove the ropes and shackles from Robin’s arms and wrists, retying her subbie’s hands to the bottom of the wooden structure, making it easier to suffer the harder punishment.

            Although the repositioning would relieve Robin’s body of the intense strain, it meant a more brutal chastisement. Her desire redoubling, Britta let loose, delivering a thorough beating in the tempo of a march, with a beat as steady as feet in measured cadence. 

            With each blow, Robin lost a piece of herself, flinging her ego back to its source, where she didn’t have to think of anything at all.  This was the bliss she was after. Nothingness, pure sweet fiery pain, then nothing at all. Like spiraling down to the bottom of everything, with nothing to get in the way of her surrender. Only her selflessness remained, rushing over her like an embracing shroud, protecting her, loving her in this sweet abuse.

            The mistress paused for a time, only to have Robin sway her forgotten rear as a reminder that she wanted more. Starting in again, Britta increased the tempo and the hurt, until Robin quickly slipped back into her beloved sub-space. The stops and starts became as rhythmical as the blows. As the cruel flogger danced across her bottom, she urged her mistress on, and the hard beating did not stop until a brilliant rash of red stripes were etched deeply into Robin’s flesh. To Britta’s credit, there was not a drop of blood; she could be a prudent mistress if she so chose to be.

            When Britta finally stopped, Robin’s mind was blank and free of thought, quiet and at peace.         

            Pressing her hand against the molten valley between Robin’s legs, Britta gently massaged the steamy flesh, while listening her subbie’s moans of pleasure. For a time the woman alternated her loving caresses with vicious slaps to the sub’s sensitive cunt lips. Then she suddenly shoved the flogger’s handle into Robin’s vagina, and ignited a hard climax. Her victim’s inner muscles tightened around the violating handle, as if she were trying to seize every feeling and hold on to it forever.

            When at last Britta removed the flogger, Robin came back to life, almost choking on the smoggy incense. It burned her throat the way hash might.

            Robin remained bound for some time while Britta watched the red color fade away and her backside pale. There were marks that would remain for several days, and bruises rising underneath the skin. Britta knew that Robbie would think of her mistress when she saw them.

It had been a pleasing scene for Britta; she’d orgasmed before she let Robbie have her climax. She’d felt the rush inside her body in the middle of the last cadence of blows—the ones aimed right on the center of Robbie’s ass cheeks.  Hearing her submissive scream when she brutally lit into the tender flesh set off an exhilarating climax deep inside her belly. The great spasms came in a wave that passed through her—the sensation as psychological as it was physical. Robbie had always been good for this kind of erotic experience.

            The unplanned scene had been good for them both. Britta was actually glad that her evening had been interrupted by the needy sub. She’s have to punish her again for not making an appointment in advance but she wouldn’t be that nasty when she did. At the moment, however, she too exhausted to begin anything new.

            “So Felicia’s dead, hum?” Britta said. “You are talking about Felicia Roman?”

            Robin murmured something back.

            “So sad,” she mused.  “I once let her be slave to me, but she was impossible to train.  Sometimes she’d give herself to me so fully, there was no way I could satisfy her need for punishment, and I’d have to back off because I couldn’t hurt her, not really, no more than I could hurt you.  Then sometimes, Felicia would bark at me, the little bitch, her eyes would flash like she had demons coming from them, as if the sky had turned to flames, and then to ash.  She’d die on me, act like a baby.  I loved her when she was with me, but I could never do anything with her extremes.”  Britta’s voice drifted sadly. “Can you imagine that? A woman too extreme for me?”  She pondered the thought a moment longer, then came to her senses, noting that Robin was still tied to the whipping bar.

            “You know, if you came to me more often, Robbie, I could do more for you. You would make a fine full time servant.”

Being a full time servant was something Robin would never do, so she declined to comment on her mistress veiled proposal. Meanwhile, she heard Britta shuffle behind her, and realized that remaining upside down was becoming painful. Her thighs ached and her head pounded as the blood raced against her temples. Robin wondered for a moment what it would be like to be the woman’s slave, twenty-four hours a day, every day.  Once, when she needed to escape the pressure at work, she’d taken three days off and landed in Britta’s den. The woman made her crawl like a slave, then she was ignored for hours and later abused; in time, becoming so selfless that it was difficult to return to the real world. How easy it would be to give herself away to the hard pleasures of sexual service. Britta often talked about her staying, but Robin had the feeling that the arrangement would never work.

 
The mistress finally undid the ropes that bound Robin to the spanking bench, then she grabbed Robin’s hair and pulled her to her feet. A little dizzy, Robin sank back and rested her bottom against the leather-covered bar to keep her balance.

            “Put your hands behind your head!” Britta snapped.

            Although dazed, Robin managed to lace her fingers at the base of her neck behind her and open her elbows the way the mistress wanted.  Her tits had almost completely popped out of the corset, and her nipples were rock hard.  Robin didn’t bother to look down at the previously marked flesh. In a moment, Britta would punish them more—marks like these were Britta’s trademark, what Robin had to put up with to get the rest of what she needed. The next day she would look in the mirror at her wounded flesh and remember being so submissively degraded.  She would masturbate just thinking of the harrowing savagery. She would open her blouse to revisit her wounds, and tell herself that as bad as life was on the other side, these moments with her mistress were a private indulgence that satisfied her deeply. If she only had someone to share them with. Leslie maybe? Wasn’t that a silly idea!

            Picking up the thin crop again, Britta flailed Robin’s fair flesh, making it burn and the cuts strike deep. Robin cringed with each one, hoping each was the last. When it wasn’t, she welcomed the next with a wince and tiny screech, feeling the pain rifle through her and settle deep inside her crotch. She would masturbate again soon!

            With the last blow, Britta announced, dismissively, “Go now, girl. I’ve had enough of you for one night. I need my rest.”

            Freed from the woman’s control, Robin hastily removed the leather bustier and returned it to the wardrobe, neatly hanging it inside while dozens of Britta’s things were still strewn about in one wild mess.  Picking up her clothes, she dressed, feeling now a comforting tightness in her body. She was sore where the whip had struck; though now it was little more than a pleasant ache to carry with her. She didn’t say a word as she dressed. They never talked afterwards—an unwritten rule. In truth, she had nothing to say to the woman, her actions spoke more loudly than her words ever could.

 It was midnight in the real world.  The street was hazy with fog and a harsh orange light that was uncomfortable on Robin’s eyes.  Even so, her mind was clear, and her body was at peace.  She’d be able to sleep, and then meet Leslie in the morning, when they’d start their investigation into the death of her former lover, Felicia Roman.