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Subordination:Chronicles of a Domme

By:Katie Ashley



With my arms crossed over my chest, I absentmindedly tapped my foot on the dungeon bathroom’s floor. I threw a glance at the digital clock that hung on the far wall. Pursing my painted red lips, I considered whether enough time had passed. Anticipation always heightened a scene. There was something about making a sub wait for his punishment, and in turn his pleasure, that drove them wild.

I didn’t have to look outside the bathroom door to know exactly what was going on in the dungeon. After ordering my sub to disrobe and assume the Display position, I knew the middle-aged man, or silver fox as some would refer to his handsome appearance, would be kneeling naked on the floor with his hands behind his back and his head bent. His body would be trembling ever so slightly as he waited for his Mistress to deliver what he so desperately needed.

When five minutes had passed, I knew it was time to make my entrance. I leaned into the light to give my appearance a final glance in the mirror. Decked in white from head to toe, I was quite the angelic vision but in leather. My corset dress hit mid-thigh, leaving just a small gap to where the stiletto-heeled white boots came. The front of the dress crisscrossed over my breasts, showing an ample amount of my C-cup cleavage. The dark chestnut-colored hair that usually flowed freely down my back was wrapped in a tight French braid with white ribbon interwoven into it.

Within the confines of the leather, I left my former self behind and transformed into Mistress Juliette. To some¸ white seemed like an odd choice for a dominatrix. Most people envisioned Dommes in the essential black or at least red. But from the first day I’d walked through the doors of Club 1740, I knew I needed a niche—something to make me stand out from the other ten women who worked there. After all, I was there to make money, not get off.

As an English major, I thought it only fitting to choose white—the color of innocence and purity. It made the perfect paradox for what I was there to do, which was certainly devoid of any innocence or purity. My job was to deliver pain and domination while also giving pleasure. Therefore, I was at times both an angel and a demon.

I couldn’t help grinning at how my appearance had undergone quite the conversion in the past twenty-four hours. Last night in a flowing black robe, I’d marched into the packed convocation center of Kennesaw State University to the tune of Pomp and Circumstance. It was the furthest fucking thing from a Domme you could imagine, unless you were role-playing a professor/student scene.

“Sophie Marie Jameson.” When my name echoed off the speakers, the moment overwhelmed me, causing me to falter in my subdued black heels. I wasn’t usually a sappy, oversentimental person, but I found myself getting swept up in emotion. But then I’d pulled myself together and made my way across the stage. I extended my hand to shake the hand of the university’s president.

“Congratulations,” she said with a smile.

My trembling fingers clutched the diploma, and I finally managed to squeak a, “Thank you.” I was too overcome to say much else. While it might’ve been cliché, there had been a whole lot of sacrifice along with blood, sweat, and tears that had gone into getting my education. I was the first one in my family to get a college degree, let alone a masters.

When I got to the stage’s stairs, I dared to look out at the crowd where I knew my dad and brother were. Although his neurologist had advised him against it, my father had insisted on attending. “Nothing could stop me from seeing my daughter get not just a college degree, but a graduate degree,” he had said, immense pride reflected on his face.

Being wheelchair bound with Muscular Dystrophy had afforded him prime seating close to the stage. Of course, he had no idea where the money to buy his new power wheelchair had come from me. Considering he thought I waited tables, he would have questioned how the hell I could afford it. So I led him to believe it had been donated. He would never know that the money had been earned by checking my inhibitions about edge play at the door of a sprawling estate just two blocks from the Governor’s Mansion.

I’d never participated in anything as extreme as fire play before, but when a club member offered me two thousand dollars for a night, I couldn’t say no. I’d spent hours out in the backwoods on my dad’s property learning how to wield both a flaming flogger and whip without catching myself on fire. In the end, I’d left the sub with second-degree burns over his body and a hugely satisfied smile on his face. I’d been rewarded with an extra thousand because he’d said I had a true gift when it came to using a whip. He had no idea that growing up on a horse farm, I’d used a whip practically before I had a pencil.

When I caught my father’s eye, that same expression of overwhelming pride was there again, but this time there were tears as well. Although I’d never been an open crier, I didn’t try fighting the moisture that pooled in my eyes. Instead, I let it overflow and stream onto my cheeks. My vision had been blurry as I made my way down the stairs and back to my seat.

Now in the dungeon bathroom, I found myself once again fighting tears. Rolling my eyes with frustration, I muttered, “Get a fucking grip, Soph.”

Throwing open the door, I found my sub just as I expected. The only sound in the room was the rise and fall of the sub’s breathing, and the distant bass from the dance floor upstairs. At the echo of my boot heels clicking across the tile, the sub’s posture became slightly straighter. I walked around to stand in front of him. He kept his gaze respectfully on the floor. Reaching out, I ran one of my blood red fingernails under his chin and tipped his head for him to look at me. “Good boy, Owen. Now go get in the chair.”

“Yes, Mistress Juliette.”

Most people upon hearing my Domme name thought I’d chosen it from my love of Shakespeare. Instead, I figured if I was working in a club named after the birth year of Marquis de Sade, I should go with the name of one of his literary heroine’s—or I guess I should say antiheroines considering Juliette’s depravity.

Owen eased down onto the leather-padded seat of the CBT chair, which was short for Cock and Balls Torture. To the average onlooker, the chair resembled a weight lifting bench. Upon closer inspection, you would notice there was a hole for the cock and balls. Since it was a torture chair, the cock and balls weren’t just left swinging in the breeze. They were locked into place by a sliding, wooden guillotine. The chair took a hell of a lot of discipline considering any movement meant having your family jewels and prized possession painfully squeezed. Of course, that was also the allure.

Once Owen placed his chin onto the chair’s rung, I leaned over and locked the guillotine. Then I went to gather the remaining tools I needed for the session. Opening the cabinet drawer, I pulled out the coiled bundle of black and purple hemp rope. Every Domme had their favorite means of bondage. Some liked electrical ties, some liked tape, and some liked chains. For me, it was rope. As the daughter of a champion roper, it was the one area of my personal life that bled into my job.

I lay the rope down on the counter and picked up the roll of electrical tape. Since Owen enjoyed intense and rapid flogging, I wrapped the tape around my palm to protect it from blisters. After my hand was taped, I then took out my purple and black leather rope flogger. Within its extensions were tiny knots that inflicted more pain than one would imagine.

Since Owen didn’t derive any pleasure from the act of being tied up, I kept things simple by using the Quick Cuffs tie, which was basically a version of rope handcuffs. After tying his hands behind his back, I dropped down onto my knees to tie his ankles. Once I felt the knot was yielding, yet secure, I rose on my feet.

Going back to the table, I turned the music on. Metallica’s Enter Sandman came blaring out of the overhead speakers. It was one of Owen’s personal favorites to be flogged to. He was a big fan of ‘90s grunge metal.

I picked up the flogger and went back over to Owen. When I cracked the flogger’s ends against my boots, Owen shuddered. But it wasn’t fear that had his body trembling—it was anticipation and desire. He was a textbook masochist who only got off from pain.

His skin glistened with a sheen of both sweat and Icy Hot. The ointment wasn’t for any previous aches he might have. Instead, it heightened the sting and the burn on the flesh whenever the flogger made contact. He had even coated his cock and balls with it.

As I raised the flogger over my head, I slipped further into Domme space. I cleared my mind of thought and focused only on the flogger’s contact against his skin. Had I been a lifestyle Domme, delivering the blows would have gotten me aroused, but as a professional Domme, it was just a job to me.

After leaving Owen’s back reddened with welts, I moved over his shoulders onto his chest. When I smacked his thick erection, Owen flinched before groaning with pleasure. “Thank you, Mistress.”

While most men would have cringed at having their dick squeezed, least of all flogged, it was what caused Owen’s eyes to roll back in his head like he was receiving the best blow job of his life. “Harder, Mistress, please.”

I stilled my movements. “Hmm, I’m not sure you deserve it.”

“But I do. Please,” he begged.

Grabbing him by the hair, I jerked his head back to where he had to look me in the eye. “Have you been a bad boy this week?”

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