The Discovery Of By Mistress Cora
After I left my lover/master/trainer, I kept away from the s/M scene for many years. Not out of regret or bitter nostalgia; but rather, out of confusion about who I was, what I was comfortable with, and what gave me pleasure. The submissive side of me did not completely ebb away because of my stint of servitude. But a much more dominant part – a side of me I knew nothing about – was aching to be explored.
However, because there was no real community where I lived, I buried my thoughts in my studies, obtained a BA and MA in writing (English literature and journalism), and associated with vanilla crowds.
It wasn’t until this past summer, only weeks before I moved to New York City, that my curious yearnings to dominate resurfaced.
I had been waitressing at a local country club that sat attractively along Lake Erie. There were no specific uniforms mandated on the premises – employees only needed to wear black. And so, because the weather was often sticky, my normal attire included a tight skirt that hugged my thighs and rose just over my knees, a snug sleeveless blouse that only buttoned to where my bra crossed over my chest, and a comfortable pair of Mary Janes.
(I enjoyed feeling the lake-blown air move through my clothes, crawling along my body like the softest graze of fingertips).
As I learned the ingredients of and served dishes such as Imperial Iranian Osetra, Sautéed Dover Sole, or Casbah Lamb-Shank Tajine, the head chef – D – and I became quickly acquainted.
He was like all the other cooks whom I’d worked with in the past: demanding, boisterous, and arrogant.
I could somewhat understand how the latter had evolved.
Including his knack for creating beautifully crafted cuisine, he also had features generally bestowed upon models: much taller than average, about twenty-nine with short blackish brown hair, and small but fiery gray eyes. He had a broad, flat nose and high cheekbones; his plump lips, traced by a well-maintained goatee, were constantly twisting into a sort of impudent, mocking, and even malicious smile.
He knew he was attractive and talented.
But even through D’s swaggering persona, I’d immediately sensed a veiled part of him – the first time I glanced into his foggy eyes when he passed me a plate of sizzling delectableness, he put his head down in a meek gesture.
Even though he was my boss, older and taller than me, and was notorious for speaking down to employees, he treated me with unyielding respect. It was as though I intimidated him. This feeling sent curious shivers of excitement through me.
Over the next few months, I began testing his reverence by giving him subtle, yet deliberate orders: telling him to make me the most expensive dish off the menu even though employees were only allowed to eat cheap food like hamburgers or onion rings; ordering him to drive me to and from work even though he lived 45 minutes away from my apartment; suggesting he shave his goatee or grow a beard.
To him, these instructions most probably came off as flirtatious joking. (I wasn’t uninterested in him, per se. But the fact that I could dominate his actions was the biggest turn on). But he soon learned just how serious I was.
It was a normal day – he had picked me up from my house around 11:30 a.m., and we were driving to work. He had been somewhat quiet and moody the past week, and so I asked him, “What the hell is the matter with you?”
He mumbled something about the owner of the club scolding him for making expensive food for “certain employees” (i.e. me) and that it needed to stop. (Apparently some of the wait staff were upset and had complained about my special treatment).
After listening to him grumble for almost the entire car ride, neither pity nor remorse swelled inside me about the fact I got him into trouble. Rather, I felt that this incident would be superb timing to test just how loyal he was to pleasing me.
As soon as we entered the kitchen, other servers were bustling about in preparation for lunch.
I smiled at them, and then leaned into his ear, “I’d like the Scottish Salmon special at 2 p.m.”
(This $32 special – comprised of wild hen of the woods mushroom vinaigrette, Port wine and shallot reduction – was one of the priciest items on the menu).
“I can’t _____,” he answered solemnly, lowering his head to the floor. “I can’t get into trouble again.”
My glare must have pierced him like an icicle being jabbed into chest.
“Excuse me…?”
I raised my voice slightly. This caught the attention of some of the other employees. D didn’t speak for a few moments. He just stared at the soiled kitchen floor.
“I said I can’t,” he finally exhaled. He moved away from me towards the stoves and began preparing for the day’s service.
The storm that seethed through my body sent electric vibrations of rage through my limbs. His snubbing of me made me feel emotions I didn’t know I had; that I didn’t know how to control.
I walked out of the kitchen and began taking customers’ orders.
Later that afternoon, when he passed me food for one of my tables, he expressed regret.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“No your not,” I retorted nonchalantly while taking the plates out of his hands. I refused to look up at him. “But you’re going to be.”
When he opened his mouth to respond, I was already walking away.
The day went on as normal.
By 9 p.m., I was escorting my last table out of the building.
As I went around the club to blow out lingering candles, shut off the lights and make sure all the doors were locked (the last server on duty was in charge of securing the building at the end of the night) I could hear banging and clanging coming from the kitchen.
D had sent the dishwashers, other cooks and servers home and said he would stay behind to “clean the kitchen”/receive his punishment.
I wasn’t sure what I was going to do to him exactly. But the urge to castigate him for disobeying my request washed over me in some great wave. This unrecognizable feeling had lied dormant all day – tucked behind my confusion on how to release it.
I pushed through the swinging kitchen door and looked at him. He was scrubbing the metallic cutting block that covered the island in the middle of the kitchen.
“You humiliated me today,” I cooed barely above a whisper.
“I know _____. I’m sorry. I’ll do anything to make it up to you,” he replied.
“‘Anything,’ huh?” I liked the sound of this.
“Yes, yes. Anything to make you happy,” he answered in a pleading tone.
“Take off all your clothes then,” I said simply.
I wasn’t sure why, but I wanted him stripped, uncovered. Exposed. Absolutely no part of me wanted to straddle him and use his body for pleasure. No…the only way I’d feel satisfaction was if he was humiliated; suffering; begging – truly begging – for my forgiveness. I’d deemed that this egotistical man had to be put in his place once and for all.
He looked up at me perplexed, unmoving.
“Did I stutter? Take them off,” I repeated, this time harsher – louder. “You have a minute to do so before you make me really angry.”
As he struggled to remove his white chef’s coat and scrubs, black t-shirt and boxers, socks and crocs, I strutted around the kitchen – my shoes clicking against the tiled floor with authority – looking for tools that would suffice my plans for D.
The first piece of equipment that caught my eye was a brown, square paper bag.
“You’ve been here for hours to ‘clean,’ huh? Then this floor should be clean enough to eat off of,” I cooed while sprinkling a waterfall of sugar onto the ground before my feet. “Get on your knees and prove to me that it’s clean enough to eat off of.”
He hesitated at first, half-smirking to himself. But I wasn’t smiling. I was staring at him with something that probably resembled disgust and hatred.
As he was cleaning the floor with his tongue, I clicked around the kitchen some more and noticed a large white sack on the bottom shelf of a metal rack. With a butcher’s knife, I cut a jagged slit along the side. White, uncooked rice spilled onto the floor where D was lapping. He began crunching the rice between his teeth.
“No,” I said hardly over a whisper. I pointed at the rice. “Get on your knees. You’re going to learn how to truly beg for an apology.”
I left him kneeling on the rice for over 20 minutes as I lectured him about his attitude in the kitchen – about his arrogance and disobedience. After awhile, I lost track of what was spewing from my mouth. I just rambled words of degradation onto him – calling him “pathetic,” a “loser,” a “disappointment” and “weak, useless used-up chef.”
I found it highly amusing that even though he was whimpering because of my remarks, he maintained hard on.
From behind, I wrapped a black linen napkin around his head so that he couldn’t see.
“Seeing me is a reward. One that you certainly don’t deserve,” I snarled.
Grabbing the back of his neck as though he were a weedy kitten, I pulled him off the rice. Beaming red indentations scattered over his knees.
“They’ll surely bruise by morning,” I thought to myself with a smile.
I pushed him towards the metal cutting block he had been cleaning earlier.
“Bend over and raise your arms above your head,” I demanded.
A quiver of hesitation resonated through him. But he obeyed. This pleased me greatly.
A spool of kitchen string was on the metal shelf where the rice was stored. I took it and tied his hands together, and secured the end to underneath the island. I then told him to spread his legs and tied each ankle to a different leg of the table. His stiff cock and balls dangled delightfully at my disposal.�
While I think back to this moment, what I did with this pile of shattered man spins through my mind so fast. At the time, I didn’t stop to think about what I was doing or the possible repercussions. My excitement had taken over by this point; it flared and ran rampant the more I heard him whimper and plead in agony.
I circled him, looking around the kitchen, collecting utensils that I could use on him: an ordinary dinner fork and BBQ grill brush to scrape over his body; a pizza cutter to roll up and down his back, ass and legs. After I used such utensils, reddish scrapes remained bright on his ivory skin. What to do next only felt natural: I rubbed olive oil over these areas and sprinkling cayenne pepper/dragged sliced banana peppers over them.
“Oh my God…Please! Stop! It burns,” he begged me.
I searched for something to shut him up. When I opened the refrigerator, I found the perfect item. He could only produce murmured moans from behind the apple that his lips stretched around.
“You will remain like this [stinging, blind and mute] for five minutes,” I edified him. “If you stay still and silent like a good boy, then I will stop the burning.”
Some sort of swell rolled beneath my work attire while I watched him suffer in silence for me. And after five minutes exactly, I rubbed ice cubes over his quivering body. This dulled the burn and he stopped shaking.
“I’m proud of you for taking that. But, I still think that you need to be spanked for being a naughty boy and disappointing me earlier today,” I said while grabbing his tight, high ass. I squeezed the cheeks until he groaned beneath the apple. “You know what, I want to see if I can make your ass the same hue as that apple you got shoved in your mouth.”
I began spanking him with my bare hand until it began to redden.
A spatula, soupspoon, whisk, metal basting spoon and the handle of a broom were the next objects I tested on his backside. He tried to move away from me at first…that is, until I threatened to use a cheese grater on his gorged member.
He took his beating quite well after that threat.
Finding all sorts of crafty odds and ends in the cupboards and on the shelves, I continued on whim for what must have been hours.
The final memory I still hold of D – spread eagle, gagged, blindfolded, shivering and destroyed – will excited me forever.
When I had thoroughly contented myself, I slid the blindfold past his flushed cheeks and trembling lips so that it hung loose around his neck. His glossy eyes looked into my delighted ones.
“Now you’re sorry,” I smirked and cut his hands and feet free with a steak knife. He slid off the island quickly and tried to cover his still-hard cock with both hands. “I’m calling a cab home. Make sure this kitchen is sparkling by the time I get into work tomorrow morning. I don’t want to have to teach you any more lessons.”
His head was slanted towards the floor – he shook it up and down vigorously with compliance.�
I knew he’d never tell a soul about our little adventure together – his pride would not be able to sustain the public shame he would feel if others knew.
That night when the taxi dropped me off at my apartment, I thought about the evening’s events and how good I felt taking control and dominating another at my leisure.
When I moved to New York City four months ago, I found s/M communities (both professionally and personally). These people helped nourish my Mistress tendencies that have been sprouting inside me since I was a small, inquisitive girl.
And even though I am technically defined as a “switch,” I will always know that what I enjoy most – what sends tiny shivers of pleasure through my eager body – is watching pathetic “men” writhe and quake in fear when they’re under my control.
