The Bag Lady and the Domme Ch. 02


In part one, Jessica Harmondon-Smithers, a successful city businesswoman finds an old friend apparently destitute in her neighbourhood. The woman, Clarissa Stocks-Johnson was a model and Jessica’s schoolgirl crush at their expensive boarding school. She takes her in and tends to her, releasing a dominant and bi-sexual tendency that has lain suppressed and unexplored. However, in this release of sexual desire and strong BDSM proclivities, an intimate game develops between them, and a story is revealed of how Clarissa has been abused and taken against her will by a shadowy club called ‘The Group’. This club targets its victims off the streets, prepares them for a mainly subservient role against their (initial) will. Clarissa has escaped from them and is now under Jessica’s protection, but her BDSM ways are not forgotten.

Although fundamentally Domme by nature, her hostess has stopped the story telling in order to switch temporarily and thus experience the lifestyle Clarissa has been living. This story contains some strong descriptions of degradation, including golden showers and scat, which some readers may not wish to read or will skip over but they are essential to Mistress Jessica’s sexual journey of understanding herself, Clarissa and the methods of The Group.

We meet them back in Jessica’s house, with her ex-school friend firmly in control…


The hairbrush landed repeatedly on my rump and inner thighs. I stayed as still as I could, my legs wide apart and my body hung over the dressing table’s stool. I had travelled to another place in my mind; that subspace mentioned so often in my trashy women’s porn.

Clarissa was nothing if not thorough in her ministrations, ensuring the marks carefully came together to create a mass of redness that would raise the heat and pain, plus the pleasure that flowed from her constant pauses to stroke the puffed and ultra-sensitive folds of my sex. She loved the rivers of sweat that streaked across her Mistress’s back and dripped from my full breasts. She appeared to be tempted to stop and lick them, but I had asked to be just a slave, a slut, a whore and such actions would have been deemed too loving, too indulgent. No, I wanted to know what it had been like in the clutches of The Group, and so as Mistress Jessica I would be ‘Topped from the bottom’.

She stopped the spanking, placing the brush beside her, noting that I did not move, still expecting more blows; frozen to the spot. Yes, I had clearly entered subspace, a parallel dimension in my head that was full of pleasure as the endorphins kicked in like a marathon runner’s. She admired my sweating, naked form, then barked a command.

“Go get me a drink, slut!”

I was jolted back to reality. I thought I had heard an order but was strangely unsure; unsure of everything. I could not even remember how I had got into this position, assuming a lewd pose that made me available for more than just a spanking. Then I felt the searing heat in my buttocks and thighs, and a dull, growing warmth in my sex. I felt disoriented, needing the direction of something or someone.

“Are you stupid slut? Go get me a drink of water. Now!”

I got up, wincing suddenly with the pain from the beating. The hairbrush had hurt far more than the hand, though was less intimate. It distanced Clarissa from her actions. Every move made me remember the sadistic actions of my friend and, at least at this moment in time, the power someone had when dominating. I felt good and yet significantly diminished in control and status. I kept my head down, automatically acknowledging the switch of roles by this subservient gesture.

“Hurry up bitch.”

I ran downstairs to the kitchen, completely naked and oblivious of anything around me save getting the water for Clarissa. In fact, another switch had happened. l was back in 6th form at school, a doting 18 year old who had a crush on her. All I wanted to do was please Clarissa; give her love, give her pleasure.

I walked barefoot on the cold tile floor to the enormous American fridge that Johnnie had bought me for Christmas. I took a glass from the rack on the side and pressed for crushed ice. I felt some splashes of freezing water hit my breasts and belly. It was like breaking an egg on a hot New Orleans street, the liquid quickly shifting and changing. I stopped, putting the glass to one side and cupping my hands under the machine. I took scoops of dispensed ice and applied them to my rosy red buttocks. The relief, if only temporary! Then I filled the glass with cool water, wiped any drips from it and walked back upstairs.

I tried to enter the room calmly, but I was excited and proud for having given over my trust to Clarissa. I liked this role, though paradoxically instinct told me it was not my natural one. I had already had that brief thought whether I was a switch. No, this was just an experiment. I needed to understand her perspective and also get closer to comprehending what had happened to her. I snapped out of my thoughts, eskişehir escort getting refocused. I put my head down and looked at Clarissa’s feet.

“Your drink, Mistress Clarissa.”

She giggled at this, took a sip and then threw the rest of the icy contents straight at me. I screamed.

“That was very, very bad. You should have thanked me for that drink I have just thrown at you.”

Her tone had changed, once happy now severe. I was confused. Why should I be thanking her? She had thrown it at me. I felt I wanted to defy her, take control back, but something stopped me.

“Go get a broom.”

“A broom? But it was wa…”

“I said a broom, slut. Get it and bring it back!” she snapped, angry at my questioning.

“But, Mistress Clarissa the water needs a mop…”

“Bend over. Present your arse to me,” she snapped, sounding very angry.

I could do nothing but obey. The spanks were cruel, harsh and in quick succession. I felt the tears well up in my eyes. I cried and cried, unable to stop.

“Shut up, shut up bitch,” she screamed over and over. I could not; I was hurting too much, more than before and possibly because of the hairbrush session. I felt pee dribble from me, I had so little control. Now she was laughing.

“You dirty little slut, getting piss on your lovely thighs and the oak floor,” she said, mocking me, laughing at me.

“Get that broom,” she snapped again, not an ounce of concern.

I walked downstairs, aware of my footprints made in piss, my piss. I was no better than my sons and daughters had been when they were toddlers. I felt dirty and yet the warm pee was in another way comforting. I remembered Clarissa’s smell when she arrived and its slightly erotic significance. I noted how its fragrance melded with the scent of my over-aroused cunt. But perhaps even more significant was that for the first time since school I was aware of every part of my naked body; every sensation, every smell, every movement and its effect. Even the sway of my full breasts, that seemed permanently aroused at present, seemed accentuated and incredibly sexy to me. I felt an intense sexual hunger.

I opened Anya (my Czech maid’s) walk-in cleaning cupboard, taking out the stronger of the two brooms propped up against the wall. I noticed how tidy everything was, with no wastage of space. Anya was a very disciplined individual, if a little timid or was it subservient in her manner? I was noticing things I had not considered before, or denied to myself. Then my mind switched back to an obvious question I had not even asked myself. Yes, why did she want a broom?

I was a little more cautious as I walked back, entering the room slowly. I noticed she had two of our special bedroom chairs, those low seats that were once so fashionable in Edwardian England and Belgium too, where ours had come from. The backs of the seats were engraved and raised at the centre but with two curved elements to each side that dipped down then back up from the central decoration, making the top of the back look like a shallow ‘w’. Clarissa took the broom from me. She had placed the seats back-to-back but a few feet apart. She laid the handle of the brush across the gap and into the dipped curve on one side of each seat back. Was I to limbo dance under it? What was it for?

“I am now going to give you a taste of what The Group did to us on the eleventh day and for four days after that. Come here.”

I was curious, so I walked up to her confidently, unaware what I was letting myself in for. She grabbed me by my right nipple. I guessed that if rings had been there she would have used those. Instead, I felt the sharp pain as she gripped my erect teat hard in her fingers, pulling me to her. I was spun round in a moment, no kiss or any endearment. She let go of my breast and held my wrists in a tight lock. I felt something being bound round them tightly. It was uncomfortable, and a barked command not to struggle made me accept passively what was happening. Then all went dark. A scarf had been placed over my eyes and tied behind my head. It was at once frightening and thrilling.

“Now, my fun and your agony begins,” she whispered in my ear. “Come towards the handle.”

I fumbled forward, eventually touching what could only be the cold broom handle.

“Raise your right leg high over the bar and place it on the other side. Do it quickly or else you will receive some paddle strokes.”

I was torn. I had grown to seek the pain of the hairbrush, but I was now curious about the bar. What a fool I was as I lifted my leg high, knowing she would be staring at my exposed cunt as I made the action. I was enjoying exposing myself to her but not thinking what this bar might really mean to me emotionally and physically.

It was hard to get astride it. I had to keep myself on tip-toe, balancing like some blindfolded ballerina. With a little bit of a struggle and some assistance from Clarissa as she held my arm, I was placed across the pole. What gaziantep escort a fool I was to obey so easily.

“Now keep that position. Perfect.”

I heard her laugh as she let go of me and walked away. I was now positioned with the pole running the length of my cunt and arse. If I put my feet flat to the floor the pole would press cruelly into me. If I stayed on tip-toe, the pain in my feet would increase as I tried to maintain my position. What was I to do?

“I was kept for about four days with my hands suspended above me and my cunny astride a plank much narrower than this broom handle. I was told that if I pleaded with them, acknowledged my lack of worth and accepted my role as their slave to do with as they wished in all things, they would let me off the beam. However, my innate stubbornness for all my subservient ways kicked in. I had accepted the piercings reluctantly and quite perversely on the basis that around that act had been pleasure, but now they were giving me an ultimatum. I was not going to be beaten, well not in this way anyway.”

Already I could feel the ache in my ankles and toes. I kept shifting my weight from joint to joint, muscle to muscle, in my feet. Occasionally I dropped down slowly, feeling the curve of the broom force apart my sex lips. It felt ok, until I reached the lowest point and then the pressure of my whole body came down hard. I got to know what a flower might feel like when it is dried and dead weight applied from above. My cunt was an orchid under the press. Beauty distorted. I hated this. I hated my lack of control over things.

“It is uncomfortable, Clarissa”

“Shut up you whining bitch. And for now I am Mistress, not Clarissa. I am your torturer, your tormentor, but I can be your lover too if you plead with me to take you from the bar and accept anything, and I mean anything, that I may tell you to do.”

What was it about this device? It had the same affect on me as it had on Clarissa. I was not going to be beaten by it. It was just a broom, for God’s sake!

“NO, no you will not win. I am your mistress you cheap little slut,” I snapped back with all the defiance my heart could muster, though in my head there was already a nagging doubt as the physical ache turned to quickly to pain.

She laughed, saying nothing. I was to learn she did not have to.

Her footsteps padded away, presumably to the door. I could not tell. The blindfold left me with absolutely no light. I was alone now; to contemplate this fiendish yet simple device. All my senses were on alert, but every so often it was the ache in my feet or the pressure on my cunt and sometimes my anus too that craved the most attention.

I heard the television go on downstairs in the drawing room. There was laughter. She was on a cable channel that repeated old comedy shows. I could just hear Jennifer Anniston’s voice. I imagined that slim, small breasted woman naked and astride this pole. I laughed to myself, glorying in her imaginary humiliation, then grimaced as I had forgotten to keep my upright posture and slipped hard onto the shaft. I cried inside, being sure not to let any outward sign show. No, there would be no weaknesses, even if Clarissa could not see me. It was about self-discipline I told myself. So I started to let my mind create new thoughts and images. I began to think about work and home, listing the problems, identifying solutions. At first it was a struggle as the pole reminded me of my vulnerability, but I started to sink into that place I knew was called ‘sub-space’.

I had no idea how long I had been in that place in my mind, but some answers emerged to thorny problems I had not had the time or the strength to address. The ache in my toes and ankles, the tortuous pressure on my cunt and anus seemed acceptable to me. Then I screamed.

“You fucking bitch!”.

I had not expected the shower of ice and freezing water that descended down my body. Nor had I expected the cruelty in the laughter that accompanied Clarissa’s actions.

“What did you call me, slut?” she asked, her cruel laughter still ringing in my ears, her tone now measured, precise, cold.

I stood high on my toes, wanting to apologise for my language, for ignoring convention by not addressing her as Mistress; of not thanking her for her actions, however sadistic they might seem. I knew that convention from the books I had devoured recently.

“Sorry Mistress,” I heard myself say, with such an apologetic tone. Where was the fight in me?

“We’ll see about sorry. I cannot pierce you, but I can enable you to feel at least something of what I felt. I’ve been in your maid’s cupboard again. She has some very useful things,” she said in a very menacing tone.

“S-s-sorry Mistress,” I heard myself say between the chattering of my teeth as the ice chilled my body to the bone. I was so concentrating on this that I did not even think of my nice oak flooring flooded by her cruel act. The domestic goddess, i.e. so proud of my house giresun escort and its wealth, was nowhere to be seen. I was a small speck of shit in the park, and I knew it, but was determined not to show it.

I felt the bar being raised again, filling the space I had left when I had extended higher. You see, the cold had made me lift my toes to their full height. I stood like some ballerina at the Garden. I thought nothing could be more agonising than that.

And then it happened.

I screamed again.

The clothespegs were attached one at a time to my breasts. Placed in concentric circles around my nipples, they spread back to cover the tops and curvy underside of my tits. I tried hard not to moan or cry after the initial shock of the first pincers.

“And now for the piece de resistance,” she announced.

I moaned loudly as one peg was pinched onto each of my nipples.

I was surprised by how hard my teats had become during this sadistic play. I was balanced precariously over the beam, my toes finding it difficult to sustain my weight, and now I was coping with the pain and then surprising pleasure of the pegs that covered my entire bosom. Plus, to add to the challenge, my toes were extended and beginning to ache. I tried to lower to the bar to ease the discomfort. I felt my cuntlips part around the pole, opening and pressing around it. My anus was pushed flat to it as well. The weight above this focused the discomfort, almost making me forget the pegs that grabbed my tits like cruel fingers.

Clarissa was giggling hysterically. Was this making her relive her ordeal? Was she in distress as she relived it or experiencing pleasure? I could not tell but was surprised at my love and concern for her, even though she was deliberately hurting me. She walked away again, descending the stairs. I was left alone for I do not know how long.

My hearing was acute. My nerve endings honed to feel every sensation. My mind was racing with a thousand and one thoughts, some positive and others dark and dangerous. In the midst of it I knew one thing for certain. I was not really submissive, this was not really me, but the switch was helping me to understand Clarissa’s world and where she had gone after her abduction. In that way I could accept it and yes, enjoy its perverse pleasures and pains. But for me I knew it would be the last time I would enter the domain of the submissive. A set of plans became so clear as I straddled the broom. The time in subspace was a release, an opportunity to be free of worldly things.

I don’t know when she came back, but I remember her lifting first one leg then the other, the rustling of something like plastic bags, and then her sliding something under each foot. I felt the sudden pain, mainly in my lower body, with each movement as I became aware of my torture again.

“You cannot leave the bar, so there is a plastic sheet underneath you. If you need to piss or shit, or if your menstruation starts as mine did in that room they held me, then this is where it will go. Enjoy the life I had.”


“Shut up slut, I have not given you permission to speak to me,” she snapped.

So I continued to straddle the pole, aware again of my tortured physique and my complete lack of status, respect and choice. This was doubly challenging for my dominant self. I hated this loss of control with such an intensity that I was angry, seething, yet knowing I could not give in to this challenge. Yes, I felt humiliated and degraded, but she would never know. Or so I vowed. It was crazy. I could have easily stepped off that broom, found some way of untying my bound wrists and taken off the blindfold, but instead I accepted the restraints on the basis of my pride. I was the perfectionist in all things. Besides, again the driver was to understand her predicament and I could only feel it if I experienced at least some of it. So, I let pride drive me, and not a little kinkiness as the pleasure that was always just behind the pain kicked in with ever-increasing force.


“How long have I been here Mistress?” I asked, calling out in the blackness that permanently surrounded me. My legs were screaming their agony, muscles tight and close to cramps. I was really asking for release, but would not plead.

“24 hours you stinking slut,” she said.

It felt like days not one day. I did not care about the stink anymore. I had held my bladder for hours and hours, desperately trying not to disgrace myself again. She had already seen me pee myself, but something made me want to resist doing it again. Besides, naively I had thought the ordeal would be over before I needed the toilet. How wrong I had been and how sadistic she was to ensure that I would need to go. She had brought me cranberry juice at some time in the day or night, forcing my mouth open and using a jug to pour it down my throat. When I tried to plead that I had had enough, she held my nose up so my mouth would open. I felt the cold liquid at first satiate my thirst, run in rivulets down my body over my tortured breasts to my aching cunt, cooling it momentarily before splashing onto the sheet below. Then, over the next hour the diuretic properties of the juice kicked in. My bladder became the focus of my thinking, my whole attention.