Ace in the Hole

I have always been a predator and tamer of men; it’s an inclination and talent I was born with. What I didn’t know from instinct I acquired from studying dominatrices. Through them I gained the trappings and the techniques of my sexual practice but their games were only a minor diversion to me. I wanted to go further, much further, and I had found a way to do it. Discovering that I needed to find what a man values and then whether he will risk it, I became an expert at putting a challenge in such a way as to make it irresistible. I had an uncanny sense for those who were craving a new life, who wanted to be taken away. There was no reciprocal insight I remained unfathomable. Men served me in the hope of winning my heart but it was the thought of what they might lose that really excited them.

I understand this well because through my attributes, generously bestowed by nature, and by dint of my own efforts, I have everything that is humanly possible in this world. Money, power and sex are mine for the taking, and I am a living oxymoron; the successful gambler. I need to play for more sophisticated stakes than others, as the only thrills left to me are making men captive, bringing them into total servitude to my desires and savage sexual attentions. Money enables me to make my dreams reality but it isn’t important in itself. It funds a Fem Dom lifestyle, but style, individuality and power are what matter to me.

How I choose to be dominant is a temperamental thing; crops, whips, ropes, chains or a harsh word, all these are frills and take different shapes and forms at various times but at heart there is the need to implant my will on others. That is my underlying motivation.

Tonight is a busy evening in my local casino and the tables are full. I spy a tall, well built man, who I have never seen before. I have an ardent desire to make him my next victim. I sidle up to him and whisper in his ear, disguising as much as possible my true nature. I try to be coy, letting him feel that he has picked me, initially flattering his male ego. By the end of our flirtatious discussion I have interested him in my wager, which begins “want me to kick your butt in a game?” He is a little shocked by my forthrightness and language, betraying my frequent visits to Vegas casinos. I flatter him that he is a man who would be bored with playing for conventional stakes and that he ought to wager for much higher ones. I state my terms ... his freedom and personal sovereignty. The winner will ravish the loser sexually in whatever way they choose, however slowly, with whatever instruments and as often as they like. The loser will essentially be the other’s sex slave for as long as the arrangement is amusing to the owner.

Dusty, for this is the stranger’s name, is clearly excited by my proposal. What man wouldn’t be? My physical appearance is remarkable enough. I am six feet tall; very slim with jutting cheekbones, my skin preternaturally pale, a patrician’s nose and full lips. This evening I wear a black satin side- split dinner dress. My blackness is a clear, cool pool in which my targets immerse their frenzied, nervous system allowing them rest, giving them a false sense of security before I strike. My violently red thick curls dangle down around my shoulders, peacock quills decorate my hair and my penetrating green eyes have an inescapable stare. He looks beyond himself into a space only I inhabit; into pain and loss mixed with the sweet possibility that this gorgeous woman could be his. He does not suspect how well I know him. I have seen this look so often on the faces of my victims. Money is no object to him, another fortune could be accumulated, and women he has in plenty, but his independence he values above even his own life. His code of ethics was formulated on the sports fields of public school; so I know he will never renege on a deal.

These are my terms. We are to play three games. Roulette where fate is queen, poker where skill has its part and chance is there in disguise, and backgammon.

The terms are agreed and strictly supervised. I give the word: “begin”. We drink through the first game, watching the red and black spin under our hands. It is Dusty that fortune favors on this occasion. However lady luck may have been on his side, this time he is left with a curious sense of unease. As is my want, and as I am always allowed, I instruct the croupier to change the white ball for a small round piece of marble I always carry with me. I leave the table and knowing my quarry, expect Dusty to ask the croupier about this. He would have replied in his usual sorry lament:

“Years ago a man such as I but younger and stronger, not lined and broken, entered a wager with a red haired beauty, the “Queen of Queens” an expert at cards. The result was he found himself a sexual slave in her place of many mansions, a place so vast no man can comprehend it. Degraded by his servitude of many years his frustration burst forth and he toppled a statue based on the Lady herself. It slid unstoppably down the marble staircase on which it stood. So vast was the mansion built by multitudes of servile men, so long the staircase, steep and narrow, that the unstoppable statute reduced bit by bit at every flight, was, at the ends of its journey, worn to this tiny marble. Madam uses it to mock you, all men and me. Such to Madam and her kin are the thundering and crashing of men. Beware stranger, beware!”

Dusty, however, ignores his unwarranted confidence, as I knew he would, putting it down to the charming indiscretions of the men in this area. It would be a wonderful tale to tell his friends. He thinks no more of the marble ball.

Moving to the card table I care not, it is time for Poker, which is my game. Minnesota Fats dubbed me Queen of Queens on a riverboat in Baton Rouge after I had beaten “On the Spot” Jack and Benny “the Jump” in New Orleans. Leaning back in my cane chair, my cigarette holder between my lips, my low cut dress allowed my full and ample bosom to distract George “Snake eyes” MacLean into folding on a king flush for a pot of $100,000. The imperious and cool-eyed Queen is my card, her gaze as direct as mine. I know Dusty for the one-eyed jack he is. He plays well but not as well as I. Long before our agreed end time of 3 am, under a low full moon, Dusty is losing. He turns up a curious hand. “Dead man’s hand,” I say, the one an eminent Lord was holding when an assassin stabbed him in the back. I smirk. I know his next hand will be his last. He calls me on a pair of jacks, how appropriate I think. I turn up my Queen with three sixes under her cloak. In the background I hear Sinatra sing “Luck Be a Lady Tonight.” Ironic, Dusty needs luck but not this Lady.

We move to the table where the backgammon board stands. Dusty’s face has a calculated and aggressive expression; He, will not, cannot lose. My expression, which reflects in the mirrors surrounding the walls, glows with an inner power that can find no ordinary outlet; bestial and wolfish. He is experienced, with a quick intelligence and plays deftly but he is no match for my incomparable skill. I win. It is time for games to be over.

He looks nervous but not unduly so. Perhaps he thinks serving me is not such an awful prospect. The other gamblers shrink away. They have heard terrible tales from the croupier and see that the men I play with never return to the casino as the men they were. The only time any of them are seen again is crawling behind me, collared and leashed, still in their tuxedos, recognizable in form but with dog masks over their faces. This club had never seen anything like the Empress.

I lean towards him. “You belong to me I believe.” My tone is possessive, gone the alluring, girlish playfulness. I clip a small delicate lead to his fly, collect my voluminous sable fur coat and lead him away, my tortured prize. I take him to my waiting car a classic but discreet Daimler limousine, and my chauffeur, dressed in a traditional motor suit, color coordinated to the car, helps me bundle him into the back seat.

We arrive at my secluded mansion. He must realize what a fantastic wealth I possess when he sees the endless façades and private gardens, the decaying grandeur of my home. Flocks of peacocks fly between the branches of cypress trees, startled by the relatively early return of their Mistress. We enter the hall; huge Venetian glass chandeliers light the way and illuminate the white marble floors. Large vases are crowned with white lilies, filled with chunks of amber and rock crystal and illuminated from below. Rumor has it that the jars contain men’s souls, turned to stone by the many sacrifices they have made on my behalf. I lead him into the salon, covered entirely in gold leaf and where thick velvet curtains adorn the many windows.

“Have you ever been tied up?” I ask him.

His jaw clenches “Well, I had a girlfriend and we used to play a game …”

“This is not a game; this is your life from now on. You will answer me instantly, directly and humbly, using my correct title, Empress.”

“Sorry, do you want to tie me up, Empress?”

“Yes, and many other things; firstly you will wear this”. I hand him a red corset. He is hesitant and nervous but strips and attempts to put it on. I am pleased with the effect as I can see every inch of his body. While he is absorbed in lacing the stays I put my riding crop handle between my legs to pleasure my cleft.

“Tell me what you are.”

“I’m your property.”

“You’re my what?” I snap.

He swallows and says carefully, “I’m your property. You won me.”

I am aroused at the mere sight of him, and the words he is forced to speak. I make him suck my black velvet gloved fingers one at a time, and then I grab his hair and push him towards the floor.

“Head down all the way, all the way,” I command, and continue to push. I illustrate my order with physical backup.

“Yes, you look better down there. Now let me start with a few rules. You are no longer to have the luxury of being addressed by your first name. You now respond only to “g”.”

I walk around him, admiring his immodest, hard bottom. It makes me excited to see him there, obedient, mine, my hunky slut.

I pull him up by his hair and he yelps in pain. It makes my heart jump and so I do it again. “Tell me how scared you are.”

“I am very scared, Empress.” “What, the big he-man, the rugby team’s favorite,” I jeer. “Tell me, to demonstrate how I possess you fully”.

“You own me, Empress, and possess me fully: it is your right to demonstrate that any way you wish.”

I place my riding crop to his lips and tell him to lick it. I slide it a little way into his mouth, and he moans in shocked frustration.

“Taste that and tell me if you can guess where it’s been.” His moan turns to sounds of arousal but he hasn’t quite lost it yet. He is alert and nervous which are good starting points but I am only truly turned on the moment when they give themselves up to me and they do, oh they always do.

I prod his chin up with the crop and he looks at it in apprehension. I push him over a lavishly specially designed chaise lounge spreading his legs, tying them and his wrists to it.

“You will be brave for me g. I will give you as many strokes as is necessary for me to climax.”

He is trying to be willing but unable to hide his fear. I begin to beat him, stopping only to place a blindfold on him. He tenses in his bonds and tries to struggle free. The total knowledge of no escape being possible, not now, not ever, excites me immensely. He is a sporting man. He agreed to the terms and lost fair and square in a public arena. No matter how much he regrets the loss of his liberty he will not be able to escape his obligations. I also think he might be enjoying this. The hard body used to women expecting him to make the first move, being my slut slave is a position he may have willingly volunteered for; do I detect a submissive streak? It would be no fun if I thought he had lost deliberately but I know that his innate sense of competitiveness would never allow that.

I leave him tied and move into my bedroom. Changing into a more severe outfit, of high heeled platform black leather boots, a leather corset and long leather gloves, a spiked collar, and nothing else, I lie on my bed and begin to pleasure myself thinking of his cries, his helplessness, and his powerful body at my command. I do not bring myself to completion; I arch my back, holding back my orgasm and return to find him struggling futilely in his bonds. I place a gag on him, watch him wriggle deliciously and then go back to my room.

I can wait no longer to fulfill my desires and give way to my memories of stalking my prey. The pictures are acute and engulfing. I have him for my own and I visualize the incredible delights I will experience when debasing him. Using my vibrator I bring myself to a shuddering climax. Returning to the room I prance in front of him, placing the vibrator in my mouth, sucking on it, teasing him. I am in the grip of my voracious lust, like no other high. One orgasm was not going to be enough; he would have to provide me with another and it is evidently not going to be in the way he is used to supplying it. Only through his subjugation and his pain could I achieve satisfaction. He would be forced to obey my most exacting carnal caprices. I observe that "g" is erect, something he must learn he cannot do without my permission.

“You disobey me, you are getting beyond yourself. More discipline and instruction is in order at this point. Rule two; never question my physical strength, my authority or my utter contempt for the mere male. Right, repeat after me, I need a firm hand to keep me in line.”

“I need a firm hand to keep me in line, Empress.”

“Do not try and approach me as an equal, which your insolent penis suggests by erecting without my desiring it do so.”

I flick a switch and music starts to play, a classic Tango track, Piazolla’s “Three Minutes with the Truth.” It unwinds with the speed of a striking rattlesnake. A good background as I begin to strike him, using a heavier whip this time to begin the process of building his pain thresholds.

“You men are all the same, superficially seeming like decent human beings then revealing a slimy pit at your core. All the vile things that you have so neatly concreted over I will extract and avenge. You will do nothing more than simply obey my commands, or face the consequences that would befall any rebellious beast. A beast you are and unless I had taken you in a beast you would have remained. I intend to feminize you.”

I outline my philosophy to him in more detail, releasing him from his bonds where he flops exhausted to the ground. I order him to scour my boots with his tongue while I give him an inspiring lecture about what turn his life has taken.

“I have never learnt from anyone resistance to assumptions of male supremacy. The assertion that man is superior to women is self evidently false. Unlike life in a man's body, life in a women’s body cultivates receptivity, openness and surrender. The ego relaxes and accepts its place in the greater scheme of things. Our virtues are those of compassion, humility and a willingness to serve the greater whole of life. However, these traits have been exploited and degraded by men who have abrogated to themselves the need to rule us. Therefore as it has been done to us shall it, be done to you.”

I circle him like a scorpion, tapping my spiky heels like pincers while he crawls around licking them clean.

“From now on, it’s Queen high, even the Joker in my pack wears a skirt, and that’s you. You have heard of ace in the hole?”

“Yes,” g feebly replies.

“Well its tongue in the hole for you!” I exclaim.

I enjoy the reminders of my recent gambling success but I return to the seriousness of the task in hand.

“You have a task of the utmost importance,” I say as I lower my curvaceous bottom cheeks over his face.