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.

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