Chapter One

The Creature

 

Mrs. Smith

 

She stood in line a few people beyond me, an attractive, shy thing. One that exudes confidence on the outside with the modern day power costume, straight back, shoulders squared, chin high. But the way she clutched her purse, the furtive glances back in my direction, told a different story. She was nervous, almost scared. Voluptuous lips pressed tight together as if some hidden secret strove to burst forth and she fought with all her might to keep it contained. Her short, quick steps, as the line progressed to the cashier, indicated a deep uncertainty. She shuffled forward and, around the shifting people between us, I admired her bare legs. From underneath a medium length, dark blue skirt, they possessed a grace of line seldom seen these days because so many women now wear pants to the office. Once in a while she glanced back in my direction, as if looking for a friend to join her, even though previously none ever had during the work day lunch hour. No, those glances were meant for me, as were all the others over the last couple of weeks.

I wondered what had captured her attention. Was it my modest, s-shaped, flared ankle length skirt and high-necked, long sleeved shirt? The early 20th century granny boots? On the other hand, was it my long hair, done up in a topknot, like so many other ladies from that genteel era? Any one of those things was certainly enough to catch a person's eye, given that I appeared as some time traveler from the Edwardian Era. Perhaps it was the two, small wrist cuffs I wore that created a matched set. Even though the cuffs were hidden underneath the sleeves, they did poke out at the slightest arm extension. However, whom was I kidding? It was the collar, always the collar, which people noticed and then pretended to ignore. But not this pretty, young woman.

Her eyes always landed on my neck. I brought a hand up, fingered the silver ring that hung down in front, and a wrist cuff emerged in full view. That young face reddened and she hurriedly turned away, eyes front to the chalkboard menu behind the cashier. She placed an order, threw down some money, then snatched up her receipt, clutched in tight hands while she hurried past me, eyes glued to the floor as she wove past everyone.

The little sandwich shop was crowded as usual. People tried to find an open table to gobble down their food. The early lunch arrivers were successful but the nervous woman was not. My own order given, I strode past her while she waited for a table to clear. I didn't need to wait. I had anticipated that the shop would be crowded and had sent the always reliable Emma ahead to claim a spot for me, a small, round table with two chairs. She sprung up at my approach and her downcast eyes hid a bright, emerald gleam. Dressed like me, but with short, red hair and pale skin, her demure countenance told me that she was almost ready for a match, but she still possessed a willful streak that flared up from time to time. The match I had in mind for her occasionally liked that, but Emma still needed to know when such was appropriate. Meanwhile, back at The Velvet Glove a difficult trainee was all strung up, ready to suffer her first extended punishment, and Emma was at the top of the duty roster. If she got back before the time for punishment expired Emma could wield the whip on the trainee. But I had sent her here, as a test to determine if she could control that temper.

I handed her my receipt, sat without comment, and opened my book of love sonnets. Emma remained standing behind me and, when my order number was called out, she scurried to the counter, picked up the small sandwich and drink, and placed them on the table just beyond my book. She stood in front of me; hands clasped in front, one tight over the other as her knuckles slowly turned white. Oh, she wanted to get back! She wanted that whip in her hand, wanted to make that self-absorbed trainee pay for her attitude. I could sense her dying to say something, to tell me that she wasn't about to let this chance of raising some welts on tender flesh slip away, but she silently endured while I read a few sonnets and took a leisurely sip of my hot chamomile tea from a delicate porcelain cup. The owner didn't serve tea for just anyone, much less in fine china. It was a special arrangement between us after I had provided him an excellent match.

I set the cup down in the saucer. "Very good, Emma. You may go now."

"Thank you, ma'am," she said. The hands loosened and she turned to leave.

"And Emma," I said. "Don't rush through it. Take your time and slowly work her up to a high scream. Just like I did all those times with you."

Emma flushed, remembering how often she shrieked under my scourge. She didn't run out of the little sandwich shop, a lady never does, but she didn't dawdle either.

I don't know if anyone else heard me, it was rather noisy as they were all wrapped up in their own affairs. Yet, a couple of nearby heads did turn my way, which I ignored. My attention was on the edgy woman who had received her own food, well before mine was ready, but still had no place to sit down and eat. I smiled, nodded and extended a hand to the empty seat opposite mine.

She could have disregarded me, waited a little longer for another chair to open up. One did. Two, in fact, at a table not far from mine, as a couple of bike messengers finished wolfing down their food and bolted. She hesitated, a crossroads type of decision suddenly opened up before her. I returned to my sonnets. What would be, would be.

Soon enough, I found myself with a lunch partner.

"Thank you-" she began.

"Tut, tut," I said, in a crisp voice. "It's too loud to talk now. Eat. Then we will discuss."

"Discuss? Discuss what?" she slurred around her food. "I'm on lunch, I don't have time to just hang around!"

I held up a single index finger and that's all it took. Quiet descended between us and slowly the lunch crowd dwindled away. She practically gobbled down her sandwich, but I took much longer. It wasn't until we almost had the place to ourselves and she slurped the last of her soft drink that my other hand shot out and lightly slapped hers. She jumped as if shot with an electric jolt.

"Don't drink like that," I said. "It isn't ladylike."

She stared at me, a modern day retort ready on her lips, but this time I wagged my finger at her and she slowly put down the gauche, plastic cup. She remained silent, as I had ordered, a good sign, even if she snuck glimpses at my collar but still pointedly avoided eye contact. But I managed to obtain a good look at them; deep, dark brown orbs in which any man, or even a woman, could get lost. I almost did and had to force myself to concentrate on my food. I munched the last bite, wiped my lips and lightly laid my hand over hers.

I said, "When did you know you were submissive?"

My sudden question caught her off guard. She attempted to speak a couple of times, cleared her throat, then tore her eyes away. She tried to look back at me, but again only got as high as my neck.

"What the hell are you talking about?" she hissed, tense and ready to run.

Steady. One wrong move, one bad word and I'd lose her. "Yes, that was probably too much to ask. For now. But you do have a fascination with my collar."

"Well, it is kind of obvious. And it's a little hard to take in...so close."

"Really?" I said. "You've been taking it in quite a bit for how many weeks now?"

Now her eyes met mine. "That was different."

"How? Because you secretly studied me? You always kept a safe distance, and would have today, if I hadn't arranged for us to sit together and finally meet."

She pressed those full lips tight together. "You're giving yourself way too much credit. How did you know I was even coming? Or even stay?"

A confident challenge. Good. I might be able to do something with her. "You've been coming every day for the last six weeks," I said. "Even when I wasn't here." She started to ask how I knew. "Oh, come, come. I had someone watch for you."

Her eyes widened. "You stalked me?"

I waved a hand in dismissal. "'Stalk' is such a pejorative term these days. Like most people, your daily habits are like clockwork, and it was a good test for several of my trainees. Which reminds me..." I rose to leave. "You will come with me."

"Uh, I don't think so. I don't even know your name. And I've got to get back to work."

"Yes. To a job you hate. A job that barely pays the bills for that little, dingy apartment in Queens. Yes, Miss Dawn Flynn, I know everything I can about prospective matches. I also know what you are, or rather, what you might become, if you have the courage. So, are you going to continue with your drab existence? Or will you take control of your life?"

I walked out, back straight, head high, acting for the entire world like I knew she would follow, and scared to death that she wouldn't. I never heaved a bigger sigh of relief than when I heard those trailing footsteps.

I stopped and turned to her. "And by the way, my name is Mrs. Smith."

 

***

 

It wasn't far from the sandwich shop at the edge of the village on West 14^th to The Velvet Glove, a converted three storey brownstone just a stone's throw from Bleeker. It's also where I lived, since my work was my life, yet for two hours everyday I took a break from such, to walk the village, enjoy the sun like on this fine, spring day, and possibly find new women clients. It wasn't as hard as you might think, you just had to know what to look for, then give them a little test.

Right now Miss Dawn Flynn was passing with flying colors. Even on the busy streets, before we entered the village proper, I could easily pick out her staccato, high heel steps amongst all the other pedestrians. I struggled to keep my excitement under control, not show any outward sign, but could do nothing about the growing warmth between my legs. Of course I found her attractive but long ago I had been trained to manifest any anticipation, of any kind, in my...in my snatch. There, I said it. Not a very ladylike term. In fact, down right crude. But sometimes crude must serve. I repeated it softly in time with my steps. Snatch, snatch, snatch, snatch. Oh, I felt so delightfully dirty at my secret mantra and that my small clothes were now almost soaked I almost forgot about Miss Dawn Flynn, or that we had suddenly arrived at our destination. But I had completely forgotten about Emma, and her errand.

I know I shouldn't have, I should have known it might have been too much for Miss Dawn Flynn to take in all at once, but the thrill at having found her, and that she so willingly followed orders, yet still retained a streak of independence, and what it could possibly mean in the long run, muddled my own thoughts. And that nearly proved disastrous.

With hardly a glance around, I trod up the familiar steps and blew through the vestibule. Miss Flynn followed right behind, but while I continued a few paces inside, she halted just inside the inner door with a gasp.

Off to our right in the parlor, spread-eagled in the air, hung the punished trainee; I believe her name was Judith. A short, curvy thing, with big eyes and a small mouth, her upturned nose only added to her perceived snootiness. I had almost thrown her out last week, but she was so contrite, that she would endure any punishment and begged so well for a second chance, that I granted her plea. She had taken her week long punishment well, and this was the last day. But now, exhausted and marked up with all her previous whippings, she was near her breaking point.

Emma's swings with the whip were wide and strong. Just like mine. She connected solidly with Judith's ass and back, then ducked under the spread legs and started to work on the inside part of the thighs, stomach, and breasts. Judith's shoulder length, blonde hair, was drenched in sweat like the rest of her body. Her wet, female nether region was wide open.

Emma struck her a few more times, raising thin, bright red welts in between the old, dull ones. Judith gritted her teeth, squeezed shut her eyes, then opened them when Emma stopped. They were bright, but not glazed. All her senses were heightened to a rare level that I also knew all too well. In such a state you experience everything in sharp detail, no fog bound hazes like with drugs or other artificial stimulants. And because she soared in that super reality, she also saw quite clearly when Emma threw the whip aside and took up a leather cat o' nine tails, and also knew exactly what that meant.

Her breathing shortened, eyes grew wide. Sweat dripped off her chin and splashed on the hardwood floor.

Emma twisted the cat in her hand.

"No. Please," Judith whined.

"You know you deserve it," Emma calmly said. "Or do you want the Tombs?"

"No! Oh, god, not that!"

Emma's arm spun in an upwards, roundhouse arc.

The cat struck her square between the legs.