Mistresses Don't Cry: A Femdom Fairy Tale

“Mistresses Don't Cry: A Femdom Fairy Tale" was written for BDSMforyou.nl by Mistress Moriah.

If you're to believe the Femdom fairy tale...
Once upon a time there was a Mistress: powerful, dominant, steadfast, balanced, sadistic, sexy, sensual, commanding and unapproachable. She always looked utterly feminine, groomed down to the last detail, and with a single glance She could force you to your knees, so that you then spent the rest of the day crawling panting after Her. She stood at the centre of life and never dirtied Her hands with dirty dishes or laundry. Imagine that. She was a Goddess, and Goddesses don't do anything as banal as loading the dishwasher. She had Her subs for that.

One sub ran Her bath while another made Her breakfast. Sub number 12 was at the same time already warming the oil with which he would later massage Her feet. For convenience, all the subs had been given a number by Her, because She found them too unimportant to remember their names. And She used the numbers at random, too.

Lying on straw

In Her cellar there were cages where subs could spend the night, lying on some straw or on a wooden plank bed. The wind blew through the gaps and 'suffering' seemed to be the magic word. In the evening She chained the rabble to the wall with metal chains. Anyone who didn't listen was marked with Her cane. Until they bled. The slaves stayed there until the next morning. In the corner of every cage stood a metal bowl: the slaves could pee in it at night, should they need to. And if they were thirsty, they could drink that same bowl empty again.

The chains were connected to a time lock, so that in the morning they clicked open by themselves and the slaves could get everything ready before She woke up. But not before they had first taken a shower, because She did not like stench. A cold one, of course, outdoors, because they weren't worth more than that. Enduring suffering and hardship, making do with the crumbs. That was their lot.

Still as perfect as the day before

And when She woke, it seemed as if there had never been a night. Her make-up was still perfect, Her hair impeccable, as if fresh from the hairdresser. She even wore Her latex outfit in bed, and the high heels still adorned Her feet in the morning. High heels that were the first thing allowed to be kissed, by one of Her slaves.

Her day consisted of a succession of indulgences. From the warm bath to lavish lunches in chic restaurants. The money came drifting to Her via all those subs who filled Her days with payment requests, gifts and entire pay packets. They paid Her rent, Her life, Her wellbeing. And She only had to be. A bit of shopping, a bit of lounging about, perhaps a visit to the sauna, hairdresser or masseur.

The postman delivered parcels from luxury kinky webshops every day. New whips, designer cages, designer harnesses made of vegan leather, naturally with 24-carat gold rings. Even Her bullwhip was inlaid with Swarovski crystals. Everything for Her. Because that's how it should be.

A well-trained crawling butler

In Her spacious villa a specially trained crawling butler crept about. He had the right to move around, as long as it was on his knees and elbows. His only task: Her comfort. He only crawled to the thermostat or the fridge. Otherwise he sat at Her side as a living footstool. Motionless. Unflappable. For hours if need be, and always with a smile.

Every afternoon She received a massage with lavender oil from sub #12, also known as 'the silent one'. He had unlearned how to speak years ago. Not because of an order, but out of pure devotion. He had recognised the voice of his Mistress as the highest sound, and found it unnecessary ever to produce a sound of his own again.

A place at Her feet

In the evening, when dusk fell and the Mistress drank Her wine in the conservatory, offerings were brought. Subs who wanted to prove their surrender did so in the form of artistic suffering performances. One hung himself from meat hooks, another had himself waxed with a pattern of Her initials, and the third had himself branded with the contours of Her perfect face. The most creative won a place at Her feet.

She had no family. No friends. Only followers, worshippers, disciples. Her name was whispered in the shadows of many a dungeon. Her gaze was enough to silence a crowd. She was everywhere, and yet elusive.

Sometimes poems appeared, written in blood, on the windows of Her villa. Sometimes someone lay naked at the door with a sign around his neck: “Take me, Mistress, I can cook.” But She never chose just anyone. She was not a woman of compromise.

A beating core of power

And whoever thought they could win Her heart was mistaken. Mistresses have no heart, only a beating core of power, wrapped in latex, smelling of Chanel No.5.

On Her birthday a carpet of men's hair lay in the garden, carefully shaved and laid out in Her initials. Decorations had been made from the testicles of disobedient subs. Hung from the branches of the magnificent centuries-old oak trees. Perfume was filtered from their sweat, mixed with a hint of fear and tears.

But what the outside world did not see was the loneliness among the gifts. The silence after the wailing. The cold echo in the hall when the subs had gone back to their cages. The long nights in which She walked through Her villa, in high pumps, listening to nothing.

Because in the richest fairy tale, the greatest emptiness can dwell. And yes, now and then a tear fell. A single one. Invisible to the world. In the dark. For Herself alone.

Because Mistresses don't cry.

Fortunately, she lived happily ever after. At least in the minds of very many subs.

Mistress Moriah

Source

Text: Mistress Moriah
Photography: 123rf.com