While I watched her slither one hand and arm into its kidskin, opera-length glove, my cock oozed more pre-cum into my pants. The sensual motions of her hand and arm inside the glistening glove made me want to jerk off. Then she slowly treated me to the sexual symbolism of her other hand wiggling into its glove-mate, and I thought I would explode. She took the diamond necklace from my hands.
I knelt impulsively, almost instinctively, before her. She placed her necklace in my chair. She wore black patent leather pumps with four-inch heels, like small shrines for her feet. Bowing further, I kissed each foot several times. I was at a total loss to explain what I had just done. Remaining on my knees, I raised my head and said, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, Princess.” She cradled my head in her gloved hands and pressed my face into the fabric covering her sacred delta. I must have betrayed a puzzled reaction to her firmness, because she explained, “I’m wearing a girdle.”
Another of my favorite fetishes. My head was swimming. I felt immersed in fantasy, able to do anything I wanted to. I nuzzled her crotch softly. Reality nibbled at the edge of my mind. I pulled my head back and looked up again. “Why did you call me Princess?”
“I rule, my little Princess—a contraction of ‘Prince’ and ‘Francis.’ I grant you a place of power and privilege beside me. But only if you subjugate yourself completely to me: your heart, your soul, your body, your will. Understand?”
I hugged her hips and pressed my face back into her haven. “Yes, Your Majesty!” I declared loud enough for her to hear me through the muffling effect of her thighs. My emotions soared and pushed tears into my eyes. My aching cock longed for release and relief.
“Unhook my stockings.”
My hands trembled while I detached the garters. So close to paradise!
After I finished, she turned her back to me and wiggled out of her black girdle, keeping the skirt of her dress down so that I didn’t get a free show. Stepping out of her girdle, she turned and walked back to me. Cupping her hands behind my neck, she took my compliant head and rubbed my nose up and down against her mons veneris. “Are you hungry?” she asked.
Her left hand gripped the back of my head, and her right lifted her dress. Moisture glistened on her hair. I licked it away, teasing her major labia with sweeping passes. Gently separating them, I kissed her swollen clitoris, sucking and licking her into moans and spasms. She stepped over my shoulders, one at a time, to squeeze the maximum pleasure from her climax.
When her orgasm finally subsided, I cleaned her thoroughly with my tongue. She patted me on the head. “Was it good for you, too, Princess?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Was anything missing?”
“You are perfection. Nothing was missing.”
“You’re lying, Princess. Good. If you lie for me, what else will you do? Turn around.” After a few moments, she said, “You may look now.” I turned just in time to see her last shimmy to wiggle back into her girdle. “Put my necklace on me, Princess. It’s hard to clasp with these gloves on.”
I picked up the necklace and stood close behind her. My unrequited cock tried to reach out and touch her ass. But, unsure of Mrs. Roman’s expectations, I stayed clear of her rump and reached the necklace around her from arm’s length.
“I’m watching you in the mirror,” she taunted. “Are you afraid of me?”
Our eyes met in the mirror. “More like total awe. Like being in the presence of a goddess.”
“Good! I shall beat you severely. Understood?”
“But if you misbehave, I shall have to punish you.” She backed up, nestling her rump against my cock. “Which shall it be? A whipping or punishment?”
“I’m your whipping boy!” My own words surprised me, but with Catherine the Great, the bizarre seemed normal.
She rewarded me by wiggling her ass against my cock. When she bent over at the waist, the warmth and semi-softness of her derriere, despite the girdle, made me start shooting off. She maintained maximum contact while swiveling her hips, goading me into releasing jets of cum into my pants. “Need help, little Princess?” Her condescending tone coaxed more out of me. Facing me, she took my head into her arms and pressed my face into her bosom. Arching her back, she rubbed her crotch against my groin, creating enough friction to finish me off.
I knelt and kissed her feet again.
“Princess!” she rebuked me. “You’ve made a mess.”
Her entrapment—luring me into cumming in my pants and then blaming me for being sloppy—tightened her psychological vise on me. Rapture engulfed me. I walked on my knees behind her and pressed my lips into the fabric of her dress covering her girdle and ass.
“Good girl!” she said. “But not now. Wait till I’m undressed. Give me your clothes, and I’ll have Martha—I mean, Martin—clean them. Give me everything. No bad jokes about taking you to the cleaners. We both know I’ll do that later.”
Catherine the Great elated me. She was the antidote to my hectic career: decisions, conflicts, rudeness, guilt—most of all, guilt. She would punish me to cleanse away my sins. All I had to do was give up, give in, and surrender unconditionally to Her Majesty. She would provide me absolution.
I stripped quickly.
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