Dom Luck

[Note: This story includes descriptions of bodily functions that may be offensive to some. If so, do not continue reading. While there is much D/S content, this story has been submitted to the Fetish category in order to encompass the range.]

"Ding Dong," the doorbell rang. I looked at my watch, and noted that it was 2:04 in the afternoon. I got up from my easy chair and leisurely strolled to the front door, taking my time. I opened the door and stood in the doorway with my hands on my hips, surveying my visitor on the front stoop. She was a middle-aged woman in her mid-40s, dressed up as if going to church, her light brown hair neatly tied in a bun. A bit on the plump side but buxom to a fault, she stood before me wringing her hands, an odd apologetic look on her face which seemed to shift between anxiety and gratitude and back again.

"Well, well, who do we have here?" I grinned. "Mrs. Thompson. So good of you to drop by."

"I'm sorry I'm late, Master," she said in a hushed tone of voice, looking around anxiously as if afraid that some neighbor would see her standing there apologizing to me. "I tried to be here right on time, the way you like, but the traffic..." Her voice trailed off and she looked down at her feet.

"Tut tut. Excuses, excuses," I sighed. "But do come in. We wouldn't want the whole neighborhood to see you standing out there cringing. I mean, what would they think?"

I stepped back and gestured to the living room, enjoying the view of my guest's charms as she minced by me somewhat stiffly in her white leather pumps. Mrs. Thompson was what they call generously endowed. A bit taller than average, perhaps 5'8", she was graced with an enormous bust which rode above a rounded little belly. Her keister was nearly as big as her top, and I admired her quivering buttocks under her flowered skirt as I turned to follow her. Her legs tapered down from impressive thighs to surprisingly slender calves and delicate ankles, nicely set off by her heels. Best of all, her face was quite pretty and nicely made up, marred only by chronic anxiety lines between her carefully plucked eyebrows.

I strolled back to my easy chair and gave her another smile as I settled in, letting her stand nervously in the middle of the room. I let a minute pass, savoring the tension in the air and my visitor's discomfort. She still had her purse hanging from one shoulder and was trying hard not to fidget, all the while avoiding my gaze. I'm not a cruel man by nature - on the contrary - but this was the kind of treatment that Mrs. Thompson required and I was proud of my ability to deliver it.

Mrs. Thompson, you see, has a deep need for humiliation and submission. Probably due to childhood incidents, this need is irrevocably entangled with her sexual desires. As you may imagine, a need such as this is very awkward to live with, for left unfulfilled it can lead to all sorts of inappropriate situations. Luckily, she'd seen my ad on a BDSM board on the web and emailed me. I provide discreet "services" for women such as she, and after a few emails and a phone spanking or two, we'd achieved sufficient rapport for in-person sessions. Over the past year she'd become one of my favorite clients. Her husband, a wealthy banker, had other irons in the fire, and didn't seem to mind her stepping out for her special needs.

"I must say, you're looking fetching today, my dear," I murmured.

"Thank you, Master," she smiled with a touch of hesitance.

This Master business was her idea. I can take it or leave it, but it seems to stoke her fires, so I'm happy to oblige. When her emotional needs call for a Daddy, I can provide that as well.

"As I recall, you were supposed to prepare yourself for this visit with a little something. Did you?"

"Yes, Master," she whispered, looking down with blushing cheeks.

"Well, turn around and let me see. You can put your purse down if that helps."

She paused just a moment, letting the embarrassment wash over her, and gave me a pleading look. I stared back firmly and gestured with my hand. She carefully placed the purse on the nearby coffee-table and turned around, extending her feet a bit. Reaching down she gathered her skirt to her waist, exposing sheer nylons held in place by a white lacy garter belt. Her broad soft bum was covered somewhat inadequately by a pair of white thong panties that were mostly engulfed between her ample cheeks.

"Oh my," I marveled. "That's quite a view, my dear. But aren't you forgetting something?"

She awkwardly bent forward and keeping her skirt trucked up with one hand, snaked a nicely manicured finger under the thong and pulled it to one side with some difficulty.

"I'm sorry, but your buttocks are so enormous that I'm afraid I can't see anything. Perhaps if you bend over and put your hands on the coffee-table, I might have a better view."

"Please, Master, must I really? This is terribly embarrassing."

"Nonsense, my dear. I can't imagine why the respectable wife of a well-known banker would be embarrassed to spread her legs and expose her nasty parts in my living room. It's not like anyone just walking down the street could see in through the front window." I looked over to the window. "But on second thought, maybe they could. I seem to have left the drapes open. Tsk. Tsk. Well, no matter. You'll just have to do as you're told."

Looking mortified, Mrs. Thompson stepped over to the coffee-table, keeping her skirt bunched up at the waist. She leant over the table, resting on one hand and pulled her thong midway down her thighs with the other. She put the other hand on the table, spread her feet apart and pushed her ass in the air. Just barely visible at the lower end of her mighty bottom was the flat latex base of a butt-plug stuffed securely up her fundament.

"Well, well. Very nice. Very nice indeed!" I got up out of my chair and walked over to the spectacle on display. "Yes, it seems firmly in there," I mused as I tapped the base with my middle finger. "I wonder what your friends would think if they knew that the proper Mrs. Thompson was driving across town with a plug up her butt, on her way to have it inspected by a strange man she calls 'Master'? Hmm?" I was now gripping the plug's base and rotating the plug back and forth, as if dialing a combination lock. Mrs. Thompson was breathing heavily.

"They'd think I was a ... a perverted slut who has all sorts of nasty thoughts and does nasty things."

"Oh, would they now? Well, I can't say they'd be too far off the mark, hmm?"

"No, Master. I've been having a terrible lot of nasty nasty thoughts lately."

By now I was rocking the butt plug around in her mighty ass, pulling it back as far as her sphincter would stretch and then letting her muscles snap it back in place. A distinct aroma was beginning to fill the air: a combination of twat juice and anal secretions. I sniffed the air loudly.

"Well, my dear, it certainly smells like you've been having nasty thoughts. I had hoped you were over that by now."

"I can't help it, Master. I know I shouldn't. But they just keep coming back! Oh, God!" I could tell by the way she was pushing back and moving her booty around that she was teetering on the edge of an orgasm. I abruptly yanked the butt plug out and stuck it under her nose. That brought her up short.

"Pee-ewwwww!"

"Exactly. "

I walked back to my easy chair, carefully placed the odiferous plug on an end-table, and took my seat.

"You can stand now," I said magnanimously. I watched her try to straighten up gracefully with her face and upper chest all flushed. It was a struggle but she made it. She quickly tugged her thong back up where it once again all but disappeared into her substantial butt-crack.

"So, let's see now. On the one hand, you've been a good girl because you did as I said and came to your appointment with that little torpedo up your poo-poo. On the other hand, you arrived late and are still having nasty thoughts. So I guess the bad girl has won out."

Mrs. Thompson stood before me, her eyes averted.

"Look at me, please." I told her. She looked up, and our eyes locked.

"I'm afraid you leave me no choice. We're going to have to make another attempt to drive those naughty thoughts out of your system."

"Please, Master! I'll be good. Maybe we can just talk the thoughts out."

Her face wore a pleading expression, but I could tell from the way her hardened nipples were visible right through her bra and blouse that she was excited.

"Nonsense! If talking worked, we wouldn't have this problem to begin with. Why, we're talking right now and I can smell your twat from here!"

"Master!" She gave me a mortified look.

"Tut tut. Quit stalling and start stripping! And give me a good show while you're at it! Then we're going to make your body behave."

"You're no fair!" she pouted.

"Shhhhh or I might have to use the paddle."

That shut her up. I watched with interest as she began to unbutton her blouse. First her cleavage came into view and then her enormous breasts encased in a white lacy brassiere. Mrs. Thompson was gifted with peg-like nubs surrounded by large pancake sized areolas that were plainly visible through the pale lacework of her bra.

She carefully folded the blouse and dropped it on the coffee table next to her purse. Next came the flowered skirt, which she unzipped and stepped out of. This too went on the table. She stood before me in her expensive lingerie, looking halfway between a hooker and a soccer mom.

"Is that good enough, Master?" She put on her best hopeful expression, even though she knew the question was purely rhetorical.

"No, sweetheart, of course it's not. As much as I enjoy seeing you trot around in your underthings, I'm afraid that we have to have direct access to all your naughty bits."

"Damn!" It was muttered under her breath, but loud enough to hear.

"What was that? I didn't hear you swear now, did I?"

"Not saying!"

"Alright, pumpkin, be that way. It's your funeral! I guess we'll have to use the paddle after all."

She screwed up her face and clenched her fists, but kept silent. After a moment's pause, she bent her arms behind her back to unhook her bra. It was a smooth move, one done thousands of times, but she slowed it down just enough to stretch out the drama. The bra unsnapped, she held the cups and shrugged the straps off her shoulders.

"Masterrr? Do I have to?"

"Yes!"

She let the bra drop and brought her hands up quickly, hiding her face. There was no question about it: they were whoppers. Unlike breasts enhanced with gel or silicone, they had a certain sag and there were subtle stretch marks parallel to her cleavage. A network of light blue veins showed through the pale flesh. But most telling of all was the mix of contracted areola wrinkles and bumps that greeted my eyes. Mrs. Thompson's mammaries revealed what she wished most to conceal: she was hopelessly turned on by her ordeal.

"Oh dear! What do I see? It looks to me like someone is still having naughty thoughts!"

She was still pretending to hide her face behind her hands, but her arms were carefully raised to the sides, exposing her breasts to my gaze.

"Your nipples are being very bad! Looks to me like they need to be taught a lesson immediately." I got up and stood at her side.

"Clasp your hands behind your head, my dear," I cooed in her ear, enjoying the jiggle of tit flesh as she complied. Reaching over, I gave a swift glancing slap to each areola. "Spanks for the mammaries!"

"Unh!!" It was halfway between a groan of lust and a yelp of pain. "Bad titties," she muttered. "Bad bad titties!"

"Yes, they certainly are, and one slap didn't seem to do it at all. Why your nipples are even more enormous!" I stood before her and gripped them between my thumbs and forefingers and twisted. "Here. Since these are like big knobs, maybe I can turn them off." I twisted them back the other way.

"There. All better?" The nipples were like thimbles and a mottled blush was beginning to extend across her bust.

"No, Master! I'm afraid they're not cooperating at all! Please do something!"

"This calls for a bare-bottom spanking, to begin with, though that never seems to be sufficient when you're in this state. Remove your thong and stockings and be quick about it!"

"But..." she began and then abruptly stopped.

"Butt, exactly. Do as I say, pumpkin, or I'll skip the spanking and go right to the paddle!"

I enjoyed the view as her enormous titties swayed as she struggled to step out of her garter belt and stockings and then pull down the thong over her shapely hips and buttocks, exposing her lovely twat. She had a generous helping of brown pubic hair out of which a swollen tangle of textured labial flaps could be seen, crowned by a clitoris the size of my thumb, bravely sticking out from under an awning-like hood. It was such a lovely sight it bordered on the obscene, especially with the glistening beads of cunt juice gracing her swollen love flaps.

"Mrs. Thompson, I must say that the sight of your exposed beaver never fails to astound me. Frankly, with equipment like you have, I'm not surprised that you are constantly bothered by nasty thoughts. And I am sure that you do yourself no favors by wearing thongs that must easily insert themselves into your vaginal slit and cause constant friction and arousal. I'm of half a mind to order you to only wear full-form white cotton granny panties, though lord knows what size they'd have to be to cover your enormous keister.

"Speaking of which, would you be so kind as to turn around and pull your cheeks apart for me. I must inspect your grotesque sphincter now that the plug has been removed. "

Mrs. Thompson's mortification was now nearly complete. She was whimpering with humiliation as I knelt behind her bum and commented on the sight before me.

"I must say that your shit-hole is as outsized as the rest of your equipment. I do love the filigree of tiny hairs hiding in your butt-crack and ringing your asshole."

I ran a finger up and down the line of fine pubic hairs, tickling them and then tapping lightly on her anal pucker. It was no mere winkie, but a rude obtrusion of purple, brown, and deep red bumps and ridges, as if the years of straining to defecate had developed her sphincter muscles into a ring of iron.

"Master, please!" she pleaded. "You are just making things worse!"

"Oh, am I now?" I got up and sat down on my padded 'spanking chair'. "Come over and place yourself across my lap, missy. Let's get down to business!"

"But Master, I have to go to the bathroom first. I don't want to have any accidents and mess up your nice trousers." She was holding her legs together and squirming around as if she really needed to go. I decided to accommodate her, but in the most embarrassing manner possible.

"Very well, but you don't need a bathroom! I have our old friend the chamberpot which is very handy, as you may recall." I walked over to the coffee-table and pulled out an old brass urn that I kept under it for just such occasions. "It was good enough for my grandmother and it's good enough for you!"

Mrs. Thompson's eyes grew wide in horror, and she blushed a deep red.

"No, Master! Not that! It is just too embarrassing! I can't..."

"Nonsense! You can and will." I placed the chamberpot by her feet. "Now squat and go peepee and make a BM, like a good girl, or Master will get really mad, and you don't want that, do you?"

"No, Master, I don't. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be a bad girl, honest."

"I know, sweetheart. We're still working on forcing the naughtiness out of you, and this is a good start."

Mrs. Thompson was sniveling and wiping tears out of her eyes as she squatted over the brass urn. "I want to be a good girl, I do," she was muttering to herself.

Then all the pent-up tension broke and she peed noisely into the pot. Her gaze was downcast, watching herself and trying not to leak outside the urn. She made a furtive glance at me, with an expression of almost heartbreaking hope.

"You are being a very good girl, sweetheart! This will help to eliminate the naughtiness that seems trapped inside you."

She allowed herself a small smile of tentative satisfaction. It was interrupted by a noisy fart, which changed her expression back to one of humiliation.

"I'm making a BM now. I hope you like it."

Her face took on a look of concentration and the sound of a dull thump came from the urn. That was followed by more farts and a farrago of scattershot dung balls and shitty drips. The poor woman was trying to maintain some small measure of her dignity as she asked me for some toilet tissue. I reached over and handed her a small box of Kleenex. Still squatting, she wiped herself carefully and briskly, and then arose, dropped the soiled tissues in the urn and stood looking at me with a quizzical look.

I gestured for her to put the chamberpot over by the wall. I'd dispose of its contents once her visit was through, unless I thought it necessary to have her do the task as part of her 'treatment'. I was not in a mood to inspect her turds and pass judgment on them today. I was sure that they could take care of themselves.

It was time to return to the business at hand. Time is money as they say, and with all this stalling around, things could get pretty expensive. I try to treat my clients with care and kindness, but my services are not free.

This time, without prompting, Mrs. Thompson walked over to the spanking chair and eased herself down on my lap. She had some awkwardness positioning her bazooms over my left leg and keeping her buns well-positioned over my right leg. Once she was settled and in the saddle, as it were, we proceeded without further delay. I like to spank at a good clip, alternating cheeks, and stopping now and then to gently rub her tush and let the pain subside a bit. I don't bother making my clients count the spanks or thank me after every whack, as I find that a rather tedious exercise. I prefer to spank until I feel the job is done or my hand is tired, whichever comes first. Besides, keeping the number uncertain helps maintain suspense, and I find that it often heightens my clients' arousal.

In Mrs. Thompson's case, she has such a plush and meaty rump that it can take a good pounding quite far beyond that which many less generously endowed women can handle. I just have to keep thing modulated between pain and pleasure, and humiliation and praise. It is rather like surfing a wave and maintaining your balance.

Today, having endured her toilet episode, Mrs. Thompson was relatively subdued while being spanked. She just took her medicine, with some low moans and groans, but no screaming or yelling or wrestling around like a naughty child. This is not always the case, but her emotional needs vary from week to week, as do her endorphin loads.

"Well, sweetheart, you've taken your spanking very well. So well, in fact, that I think I will leave paddling for another time. You've been a very good girl all in all, and I hope this has helped with your naughty thoughts. Do you have any final requests?"

"Oh, Master, I feel much better, but I'd feel better still if you were to rub some of your healing cream on my poor tush. It burns something awful, and the cream would feel so good."

"Of course, my dear, that is always a nice ending to our times together."

I reached over and grabbed the small jar of cooling salve and scooped out a generous amount. With my right hand I gently spread it over her reddened cheeks and into her butt crack and around her enlarged sphincter. With my left hand I spread a smaller amount onto her titties, especially her sensitive nipples and areolas. Mrs. Thompson sighed. I knew what she really wanted, without her having to spell it out. As was usually the case, the only way to drive her naughty thoughts away was to satisfy them.