Dusk has always been my favorite time of day; the last blink of the sky before it leaves me to the moon’s devices. Now, it is time. I twirl the tulle hem of my silk cape, brushing it against obsidian skin, and guiding it down my thighs to the ground around eight-inch Pleaser heels. Poppet likes Pleaser heels.
I buzz him in, looking up and down Hermannstraße to make sure he’s alone. I transform into Mistress Zelight and open the door. It takes some doing, a fair bit of discipline, but now Poppet greets me from his proper place; on his knees in my hallway, pants pulled down to his ankles for any passerby to see his pasty legs shaking with anticipation, and my tribute in his mouth.
I relieve him of his burden. The green paper feels like satisfaction under my manicured fingers. As an afterthought, I double click my heel in our shorthand, a command he knows well. Poppet is a 50-year-old cum slut, eager to take all that Mistress Zelight cares to give, from the sky-bound tips of her hair down to the razors of her cheekbones, which complimented the roundness of her nose in a facial melody often referred to as “divine”.
Poppet is a 50-year-old cum slut, eager to take all that Mistress Zelight cares to give, from the sky-bound tips of her hair down to the razors of her cheekbones…
When I reach the den, he is there, panting expectantly for a glimpse of something more than the silhouette of my ass and the ample bush between my thighs. I tuck the tribute away and start the timer: 60 minutes to make him useful.
“Poppet,” I grin, “your day just got a whole lot better.”
“Yes, Mist—” My heel is pressed to his lips in an instant, a reflex to his insubordination.
“Six months and you still haven’t learned.” Slowly the leg comes back to the ground, as Poppet whimpers apologetically.
“You may correct yourself.”
He almost opens his mouth, and Mistress Zelight is ready to snatch his tongue out if he does. Fortunately for him, self-preservation prevails. I extend the endless length of my right leg toward him. He knows what to do. Poppet bends forward on his hands and begins with the laces, pulling them with his teeth one by one, undoing them with frustrated grunts, itching to use his hands just to get there faster. But watching his frustration, his ass jiggling in the air as he trembles with the need for release, is half the fun.
Finally, success. He licks the top of my foot and shudders. “Don’t you dare cum,” I warn, with no compassion for his tortured state.
He apologizes with steady gentle kisses around my calves, taut while I balance effortlessly on my high heels. A less experienced Mistress Zelight would sway just a bit at the eager pressure of his lips climbing up her legs. I swing my leg up and around his neck in one graceful glide and squeeze hard. A less experienced Mistress Zelight could not so easily have brought him under subjection.
He looks up at me— terrified, breathless, exhilarated. “You know better than to even look at my pussy without permission. You thought I wouldn’t notice your eyes drifting.” I pat my pussy hair, chuckling softly as it bounces back. “I suppose you’re hungry. Aren’t you, Poppet?”
I grab his wispy hair, contrasting pathetically with the robust multitudes on my own body. He winces but makes no sound.
I pat my pussy hair, chuckling softly as it bounces back. “I suppose you’re hungry. Aren’t you, Poppet?”
“You may answer.”
“Yes, Mistress,” comes his pitchy reply.
“If you show me your use, I’ll give you a single taste. One lick.”
He grunts. It suffices.
“Bring me Purple Rain.”
Poppet whimpers. His arousal hangs between his legs, knowing this task will not be easy, but is oh-so-worth-it.
He skitters across the wooden floor, knees squeaking with every move. He flinches each time his skin rubs against the wooden floorboards and his dick squeezes between his thighs.
“Good Poppet.” I smile at the success of my training when he returns. “You may put those hands to work.”
He holds Purple Rain up for inspection. Its matte silicone spills out of his hands. The purple rabbit vibe is a personal favorite, and Poppet wields it rather well.
I perch on the back of the sofa and stretch out catlike along the edge. My robe and breasts part to either side, the only thing jiggling as I balance on my perch. “What do you want to do with that, Poppet?” I turn effortlessly to face him, and his awestruck expression tickles something deep inside me. How the tables turn.
Poppet smiles, eager to answer.
“You may tell me.”
“I want to make you cum, Mistress.”
“And?”
“I want to taste your juices when you cum, Mistress.”
“Then let’s see how you do.”
Poppet parts my bush with the rabbit’s rounded tip. The cold silicone makes me shiver, but not fall. “You’re missing something, Poppet.”
I grab his hair and pull him forward, making me the only thing holding him off the ground. A squeal escapes his lips; delight or terror, I’m not sure.
Confident he is aware of his error, I let him go and he falls with a thud. Poppet scrambles back up to his knees, reaching for the lube with trembling hands. His liberal application warms up Purple Rain. The vibrator starts up, and I let myself feel the throbbing against my pelvis, burrowing carefully in search of the labia… then, ever so gently, brushing my clit. I shudder, something akin to a twitch. I am careful not to give too much too soon.
The vibrator starts up, and I let myself feel the throbbing against my pelvis, burrowing carefully in search of the labia…
“Am I pleasing you, Mistress?”
“Shut up and keep… going.” Another shudder runs down my spine. It is a competition, I suppose. He serves the ultimate good that is my pleasure. There’s a tacit understanding that he wishes to be special, to differentiate himself from the dozens of regulars. He knows the way to do that is to make me cum so hard I fall off my perch. No one has done it yet, for the record. I almost let the sensation of the rabbit on my clit send a swearword hurtling through my stomach, up my chest, and out my open mouth. Damn — he gets better every time.
Best of all, he works in silence, making it easy to reduce his presence to a mere incidental. That is the treat for him: the privilege of existing only for my pleasure. I feel the heat building in my thighs when I imagine him, sweating and panting, hands aching, knees burning, and I haven’t even broken a sweat. Best of all is getting paid for the use of my personal sex toy.
My body shakes from head to toe, and I let myself scream. “Fuck!” My hands go over the arm of the sofa, body stretched except for an arching back. I might keep this one, I muse languidly… Then I remember, he awaits his final command.
“Put that tip in your mouth, and my tip on the table. Then leave.”
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