100 Bedtime Strokes (Mistress Elise Winter & morgan #2)

“May I sit?” morgan’s voice surprised Elise; she hadn’t seen him approach. She looked up from her book and blinked, then composed her face and her answer at once.

“Are your chores complete?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Tell me.” This was their ritual every night, the way they loved to come back together. Elise’s eyes sparkle as she fights the urge to reach out and grab him, pull him into her lap. Rituals are important, she reminds herself. Not only to display her authority, though yes that too, but also to reminder her of all that he does, the many ways he is devoted. She stays more present in gratitude and strives more successfully to be worthy when she pays attention to their rituals.

He begins the list. “Your tea service is complete; the dishes are done and put away; your clothes and jewels are put away, and tomorrow’s are laid out for you. Sir Elvis Purrmeister has been fed.”

Elise feels a smile pull on the corners of her mouth, starts to suppress it, and lets it come. Her cat’s name is just Elvis, but morgan has taken to adding the honorific and surname, and Elise is too amused to have him change it. It is clear who is above whom in the hierarchy, anyway, so the proper respect is just one more thing to admire about morgan.

“Tomorrow’s schedules, both yours and mine, are next to the bed and the morning alarms are set. The bed is turned down. And, I have picked tonight’s implement, it is in the usual place on the nightstand,” morgan doesn’t look smug or tired, just pleased to be useful and grateful to be serving.

Elise sighs a little, with relief and relaxation, with the pleasure of being taken care of precisely as she likes it. “Good job, boy; you may sit.” She pats the side of her elegant thick leather reading chair and he takes his seat at her feet, leaning against her bare legs and cuddling into her with happy sighs, the tension from the day leaving his shoulders.

She takes another sip of her tea and goes back to her book—one of those classic English novels that she likes. This one is Pride and Prejudice, a favorite she re-reads once a year or so. This is the second time morgan has seen it in her hands.

Most nights, this is how it goes. Sometimes morgan has a book, or something to study, or some lines to write for training or task. Usually, Elise has a novel, something that feels indulgent but keeps her mind steady and her heart thrumming. She likes to be as far into the adult-land in the evenings as possible—spending all day with pre-schoolers and kindergarteners for her job is exhausting, and can take such a toll.

She fingers the hair on the back of his head absently, as if fingering a blanket on the chair or her own sweater. His presence is comforting, reassuring. The warm mint tea and honey soothes her and flows golden down her tongue. Everything is just right.

After a few more chapters, when Lydia elopes with Mr. Wickham, Elise closes the book with a small snap and stands. morgan blinks and quickly rises to his ready position—hands behind his back, eyes down—he does not stay seated when she is standing. She pulls him close, nuzzles her cheek against his forehead, and he wraps his arms around her waist. How well they fit together, their bodies’ contours so complimentary. She holds him there for a moment until she says, “Okay; bedtime, boy,” and they separate. She turns to the hall to go into the bathroom for some of her evening self-care, and he goes to the bedroom to strip. She takes her time—brushing and braiding her hair, applying cleansers and creams to her skin, brushing her teeth. He waits. The waiting is like meditation, but cleaner for him, as it is totally beyond his control and thus much easier for him to let go. (This is the kinds of things he tells his Mistress in his journal, which she reads weekly.)

He has picked out the thick wooden paddle, taller than her hand’s widest spread. One side is soft suede, the other is hard wood. The handle is wrapped so her hand is protected.

This paddle makes beautiful, deep bruises.

When she enters, he has taken off his tee shirt and boy short-shorts, the ones that almost show the bottoms of the cheeks of his ass. He’s down to a jock strap, the white one, on his knees, hands behind his back in his submissive meditation position next to the bed. He knows to wait there until he is released by her. He breathes in the smell of her evening lotions, now so familiar to him and so related to their evening beatings that he flinches when the sweet tangy scent reaches his nose, and his mouth salivates. He is a trained pet. She can see his arousal in the flushing of his nearly naked skin, the slight hardening of his nipples. She is nearly bare now, too, down to one thin cream-colored slip with nothing beneath it. Her feet are bare. She keeps her bedroom warm.

“Here.” She points to the bed. She is not cruel, not really—just direct, specific. She eliminates superfluousness. She does not believe in coddling in D/s; she believes in trust, agency, consent. She believes morgan’s deep desire to serve and to please, and she is grateful, yes, but she also feeds off of it. She consumes it like cotton candy, leaving her mouth pink around the edges and her fingers sticky. She needs it, just as he does. Her clipped tone is only for simplicity, and for intimacy, as she trust him not to need hand-holding. Not anymore.

Mistress Elise Winter is deft with a paddle. It was always one of her favorites when she was domming professionally, delivering such a satisfying smack and leaving such good bruises. Plus, it can be a key prop in any age-play scene: just a few words and it is suddenly a cutting board the bottom’s mom grabbed from the kitchen, or a sorority girl who stole a fraternity paddle or a headmistress’s prized discipline tool. Even more than obedience, Elise likes her subs small and little, with feigned (preferably not real) innocence. Something about the corruption just works with the way she is wired.

She whispers in her boy’s ear before she begins—something soothing, something that makes him relax, arch his ass in the air a little higher, and lean in to her just a fraction of an inch more. She rubs herself against his ass and thighs, her hand stroking the fine muscles of his back. When he whimpers a little, she knows he is ready. 

Starting with her hands, she warms up his ass and thighs and upper back. He is chest-down, his face kissed by her burgundy 1000-count sheets, his feet just touching the floor of her raised bed. When she moves from the quick light swats to the deeper fist-thuds, he asks her if it is time. 

“Yes; go ahead and start,” she replies. 

He begins counting aloud. She’ll do twenty or thirty more with her hands beofre bringing in the paddle to finish the hundred strokes. 

They don’t say much. It’s just one of those quiet nights. Elise tries to let her job fall away, the stresses of her vaninlla life out of sync with her kinky self, the projects for the non-profit board she sits on, the pressure of her mother’s struggling health battle with emphysema. Nothing precisely fills Elise’s mind, but she finds her inner world quite full when she quiets and focuses. The relief of a target, a victim, is almost enough to make her start crying, the release feels so huge, like a dam beginning to leak and ready to smash apart with the weight of what is held back. 

morgan is counting. “32 … 33 … 34.” He is diligent, and taking it for her. He is deconstructing and reassembling in front of her eyes in that way that power and sensation can inspire. She slides the paddle into her grip and opens a rain of blows on his tender flesh, already pink and warm to the touch. His breathing gets heavier and his voice gets more strained. She doesn’t care; they are only just barely to 50. She winds up like a baseball batter and swings. He screams into the sheets. Drops of sweat form and trickle at his neck, at the small of his back. His ass is a round handful and she takes her grip as it pleases her, kneading like dough. She leans down to bite his ass. He yells out, “Mistress, please, oh god, please, it hurts!” He squirms away, but her hands hold his hips. She leaves a dark ring mark from her teeth; that one will bruise up nicely.

She licks her lips, and swats with the paddle again.

“This is for me, not you,” she whispers, mostly to herself. “I need it, I don’t know why I need it, but I need it, need your ass like this, need my marks on you, need your ache to show in your face tomorrow when you sit down.”

“68 … 69 … 70.” He is panting between the numbers. She is taking her time, savoring each one. His ass is already purple—he won’t be able to sit. She focuses on his thighs. He is trying so hard not to squirm. She slips a finger between his ass cheeks to check on his hole: it flexes against her finger pad like a kiss, open and eager. “Hungry boy,” she murmurs, swatting again with her right hand. He whimpers, pushing back against her just a little, not wanting to be too eager or demanding, but showing he wants it.

His knees are getting weak. The bed holds him up. Elise strokes his hair and he turns so one cheek is on the bed and he can see her, just a little. Her thick braid is flying behind her like the tail of a kite, her hands moving quickly, opening his tight back hole as the paddle slams in to him. He tries with all his concentration to keep count. He misses a few, but she lets it go; he is doing so well. “So good, boy,” she coos. “You’re so good.”

He’s in the nineties now and they are both climbing. Her two fingers have dipped into the Boy Butter on the nightstand and opens his hole just enough to feel the pressure distracting him from the wicked paddle. She might let him get off. Will she? She can’t decide. She likes it when he does.

“98 … 99 … 100,” morgan is whimpering each number, tears down his beautiful cheeks, body shuddering in waves of release. Elise steps back and breathes, separates herself from him for a moment so they can both catch their breath. Her wrists throb, shoulders buzz with aliveness. A few hairs have strayed and she tucks them back into her braid.

“Morgan,” she says softly. “Get on the bed and turn over.”

He does, slowly, testing out how his muscles have been changed, wincing at the rawness. She slides her slip up her thighs and kneels on the bed, swinging her leg over him and sliding up his body.

“Oh god,” he says, muffled, before she has even lowered her cunt onto his mouth to feed it to him. Hers is a hungry mouth, too, swollen and wet, dripping. She never lets him enter her, but she uses his mouth when she wants. His stamina is impressive.

She lifts her slip just enough to it is out of the way, not restricting the openness of her thighs. Its hem kisses his forehead. He laps with his tongue, sucks with his lips and throat. Her clit is huge and bursting with need, angry and red like the palms of her hands, like his ass. She needs it, this release, maybe even more than he does—though how can they compare? But her want is monstrous, never-ending. She almost feels like herself again. She rocks her hips over his mouth and steadies herself on the headboard, arms outstretched. She barely remembers there is a person under her right now, she just grinds down and against this beautiful boy, this toy who always does it just right, just right there.

“Come when I do,” she orders, low and fast, not giving much warning—but he won’t need it. He’s been ready to come since she fingered his ass. And he knows what she sounds like, what it means when she starts clawing at his hair and suffocating him with her hole.

“Fuck, that’s it, there, god oh god oh GOD!” Elise is sitting on a volcano and erupts through her mouth with words and grunts and screams when she comes, heavy, filling his mouth with liquid, pushing it into his throat. He opens wide and takes it, shuddering under her and swallowing.

“Thank you, Mistress, thank you,” he repeats, breathless, still only breathing small sips of air. She moves off of him and collapses onto the pillows, he curls up in her arms.

“Stay in my bed tonight,” she says, stroking his hair.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he sighs, happy, pulling the covers up over them both as they drift off to sleep.

Submissive Fantasy vs Submissive Reality, Guest Post by rife

Hi this is rife, Sinclair’s boy. Maybe you’ve read dirty things about me, but that’s not the whole story. So what am I up to when not bent over? Well … I love erotica and porn as much as anyone (honest!), but often when people describe it, we get so hot and heavy talking about the erotic fantasy version of BDSM and the really turned-up power play, and sometimes forget to mention the everyday lived realities and negotiations of it for “24/7” or “live-in” slaves, like me. These real-life submissive moments can be mundane, but also deeply satisfying in ways we might never expect.

So what does that stuff look like? You know, all the boring, in-between times where we try to keep the dynamic hot and tight and present, despite jobs and obligations and sick days and the general upkeep involved with not living in a fantasy world? That’s what I’m here to share. (I’ll try to get your rocks off another time, promise.)

Disclaimer: The following is a true account of my personal experience with live-in submission versus my fantasy version of it. This is only my experience, and please don’t take me too seriously, or assume this is The Way It Is for all slaves or s-types. I’m just speaking for me, here. This is not the right way, just the right way for me.

Submissive Fantasy Morning

7:00 AM Slide out of my spot at the foot of the bed bed before dawn, silently padding out to not disturb the sleeping Dominant.
7:03 AM Shower and shave my cunt with the straight razor, then put on the jock strap that Master left out for me the night before. Wearing only that, I start prepping Master their favorite breakfast, and have it ready on the table when they awake, with ice water with lime, their pills, and morning tea prepared (but not too hot).
8:00 AM Spanking with the wooden spoon over Daddy’s knee because I’ve not cut the onions small enough. Everything else was delicious.
8:15 AM Set up the office for Master’s work day; the heat is up, the shades are drawn, music is on. Sit at Master’s feet and await further orders.
9:00 AM Time for my daily fitness routine. Make sure Master doesn’t need anything, and I go to the little gym equipment in the corner. Master looks up from their work from time to time to watch, singletail in hand in case I should slack off. I make soft, sexy grunting sounds while I pump iron.
10:00 AM Help Master with their website and work tasks, check in on the Submissive Playground forums and emails.

Submissive Reality Morning

7:04 AM First alarm goes off. Wake up warm and cozy in Daddy’s arms, curl around tighter and hit snooze.
7:48 AM Three snoozes later, we stir. We tell each other our dreams and dirty stories, and end up fooling around some.
8:15 AM I groggily ask permission to leave the bed.
8:16 AM Why is it always so cold in this house?! Throw on last night’s PJs from the floor and a big fluffy robe. I go pee, as directed, so I don’t get another UTI.
8:21 AM Daddy finds me staring at the coffee pot and takes over making breakfast. I’m delegated to chopping and fetching duty, out of the way.
8:27 AM I put away last night’s dishes and set the table for breakfast. “Can we eat outside, Daddy?” “No, boy. It’s still too cold out.” “Okay, Sir.” Breakfast is delicious. I thank them lots and apologize for being useless in the morning for about the billionth time. I make the bed like Daddy likes it.
9:00 AM The first round of dishes for today; why does Daddy need so many bowls to scramble eggs?
9:15 AM Planning the day, picking the Most Important Tasks from my boy chores list, and reminding myself, what was that new protocol this week…?
9:22 AM “Daddy, may I use the restroom please?”
9:24 AM Sweep the kitchen floor (didn’t I just do this yesterday? I’m pretty sure I did) and settle in to work.
9:45 AM Email and other admin tasks for my small business, on a cushion in the living room floor, not at their feet, but where Daddy can see me.

Submissive Fantasy Afternoon

1:15 PM Pleasure Master Orally.
2:15 PM Pleasure Master Orally.
3:15 PM Pleasure Master Orally.
4:15 PM Pleasure Master Orally.
5:15 PM Pleasure Master Orally … What do submissives do all day in their fantasies? I.. uh, take a nap maybe? Oh, do some personal grooming! Definitely. And… practice my guitar and other pleasing arts.
6:30 PM – Midnight SEXUAL RELATIONS BDSM FUNTIMES EVERY DAY. Whips and chains and shit in our own personal dungeon in the basement (which is totally not creepy and filled with old mattresses and feral cats, in this fantasy universe).

Submissive Reality Afternoon

1:00 PM Second set of dishes for the day, from lunch and the coffeepot, which is regrettably empty.
1:00 PM – 3:45 PM Work at my job, building websites and mobile apps and stuff. This month I have a variety of fun projects (and the normal cadre of boring ones, too).
3:45 PM “May I use the restroom, Sir?” “Yes, go ahead, boy. Give me a kiss first.” (I also refill their water while I’m up.)
3:48 PM Back to work. Probably time for a tea and fruit break. I offer Master some but they decline.
3:50 PM- 6:00 PM Work, work, work. Small breaks to pay bills and walk the dog.
6:01 PM Freedom!! “Daddy, can we go for a walk? Please, please?”
6:22 PM Night hike around our favorite little lake, followed by dinner at that Thai place I’m not crazy about by Master is really into. Daddy orders for both of us and I ask before sitting.
8:00 PM Catching up on some Downton Abbey. We are way behind. I’m invited onto the couch!
10:00 PM We play cribbage because we are basically old people. Daddy kicks my ass this time.
11:00 PM Where did the time go? I brush my teeth and pick out a bedtime story, strip down to sleep naked and ask permission to get in bed, as I should, grateful for my real-life Daddy and deep spiritual submission. Even when it means doing the dishes 3 times a day.

Okay, so there you have it. My day-in-the-life of your average, everyday sex slave (results not typical. Your mileage may vary). I notice some big differences between the fantasy realm and the real-life versions, namely: hurray! In the fantasy, I don’t have to work because Master supports us both. You know, because writing smut and giving it away for free on the internet is so lucrative (eyeroll).

It hasn’t always been this way, though. The first year and a half of our relationship, we could basically keep the fantasy up, fuck and play the vast majority of our time together. The secret? We only saw each other on weekends, at conventions or hotels (where someone else did the laundry and everything else could wait). I highly recommend long-distance D/s if you want to live your fantasies (and who doesn’t?), it is super fun.

But eventually, we wanted more. The thing about the boring in-between times, the sick days and hours of bad TV and cuddling and cleaning house, is that that’s most of what our lives are made of. And there came a point, at least in my life, where that reality of intimacy with another human became preferable to even my best fantasy. That, my friends, is called winning.

Now, I’m not saying we don’t still have marathon fuck sessions or break out the implements o’ destruction from time to time (because oh, we do). But when I imagine that kind of intensity every day, I kind of lose my boner for it. I remember before we moved in together I was genuinely scared: What if I could just never sit down again because of all the bruises on top of bruises?

We did it anyway, though it was scary as hell. Finally, that “monstrous want” of Master’s calmed down. Don’t worry, it’s still here, but channeled. We found ways to feed it, even on random Wednesdays when we both had to work, that didn’t involve making me purple all over or quitting my job and forsaking all other obligations. We found some kind of… balance.

I’m not going to blather on about my history and congratulate myself on getting here, to “living the dream” of live-in submission. Because honestly, I’m still new at this, and finding my way. But I will tell you this: It doesn’t happen by accident. You have to look for it, hard, for years sometimes (ten in my case!). You have to work your ass off to be worthy of it when it does show up. I wish the same for you, sincerely, that you can make the steps to actualize your fantasies and fantasize the reality, until it’s hard for you to untangle them, too.

Still, I’ll take the reality any day.

—rife

PS: Are you another submissive looking for community? I’ll be active in the forums and chat and video calls during the Submissive Playground. I love it there! No other place on the internet have I found such an active, supportive community of true peers. I’m honored to know all the players. I’d like to invite you to join me there, but you’d have to act super fast—registration closes tomorrow!