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Warning- the following contains elements of bloodsport, watersport, scat, menstruation and noncon/reluc, as well as derogatory racial, ethnical and religious references. If any of this offends you--go on, read the story, you know you want to, so you can leave a snarky comment and drop a one-bomb.

All participants are over the age of 18 years. All characters, places and activities are fictitious; any reference to any actual person living or dead, or any place or thing now or formerly existing, is purely coincidental; as to public figures or institutions, a qualified Federal and State Constitutional privilege is hereby asserted.




Mistress Janet Travers decided to give herself a night on the town in Manhattan before catching the eleven o'clock morning flight to Montréal. She left Marisol with complete instructions, not that she needed them. Marisol could take care of Jenny and any drop-ins who might come by. The Connecticut house had good security, and Marisol had plenty of CS gas and the pistol. More to the point, she was trustworthy.

The house had become hers, with Marisol and the money to run it, on the deaths of Mistress Erica and Mistress Andrea in a horrendous snowstorm pile-up on I-95 two years ago. More difficult was the switch from sub to Domme, but fortunately Mistress Erica had her nearly through it when....

The last year had been the marriage of heaven and hell. Heaven, as Mistress Janet grew into the role of Domme. Hell, being without Mistress Erica and Mistress Andrea, having to ask herself not 'what would Mistress Erica do?' but 'what must I do?' And heaven and hell intersected, when she took the beating from the ferociously sadistic Mistress Lauren, to spare Natalie, a young sub totally out of her depth.

Once she left the hospital, she took Natalie into her own house. She was able to play the role she always wanted, élèveuse, not teacher, but elaborator, like a master vintner, bringing from the fruit of Natalie's body the delicious nectar that would give pleasure not only to Mistress Janet, but to the others who would possess her.

She would follow the precepts of Mistress Andrea: anticipate but always be adaptable; flog seldom, but flog thoroughly; treat the sub as a child, not an object, but lovingly, caringly, bringing from submission a form of love that no vanilla could ever know. Finally, be a Domme--dominate, subdue, control. Do not let sentimentality, which could engender a terrible kind of cruelty, replace intellect and honesty--and never let sentiment be a substitute for love.

The girls came to her, from where she could never tell. They brought fear with them, rejection wrapped around them, self-loathing hanging on them like a backpack full of stone. They left fulfilled, free, carrying memories of beatings but also nights of almost unbearable orgasms. It was a year she would never forget, her butterfly year.

Now, tonight, it was dinner at Le Bernardin with a half-bottle of Cakebread Sauv Blanc after an evening at the theatre. Soon it would be her bed at the Hilton, alone, unless she found company. But if she found a companion for the night, buttocks to flog, an anus to penetrate roughly, but most of all a person to love, even for a few hours--or if not-- she smiled. Tomorrow would be another day.

Walking slowly east on 52nd Street, Janet drank in the city and the night. Yes, it was dangerous, filthy, creepy, expensive--but it was exciting, alive, putting a woman to the test every second, a close-combat course with no second place winner.

She handed a dollar to a beggar at Sixth Avenue, turned uptown and walked into the Hilton. Turning right through the lobby, she found her way to the bar.

At nearly five foot nine and not model-thin, she needed more than a half-bottle of Sauv Blanc, even at 13.6%, to get tipsy, but she wanted no more alcohol. She ordered ginger ale with a maraschino cherry, a little-girl drink. That set the tone for her scan for a little girl.

The girl wasn't little, only two inches or so shorter than she was. Big breasted, hourglass figure, big hips and a wide ass, maybe a candidate for Weight Watchers. And wearing a wedding ring. Oh well, if you never ask, you never get.

*quot;Are you here for the convention?*quot; It never failed in a big metropolitan hotel; there's always a convention.

*quot;No. What convention?*quot;

*quot;The one tomorrow.*quot;

*quot;Oh. No, it's just business.*quot; Good, maybe no husband; or maybe the ring is just for show, like an ADP sticker on the window of a house with no burglar alarm.

*quot;Me too. New York today, Montréal tomorrow. Where are you going?*quot;

*quot;I'm here, teaching.*quot;

*quot;Oh, college?*quot;

*quot;No, work. I work for Ernest