I’d been a tad naughty during our evening on the town. I drank too much Scotch and allowed my libido to slip its leash – sidling up to good-looking men, breathily whispering coy suggestions into their ears, brushing my fingers across their bulging crotches. I eventually depleted Madame’s store of tolerance and she brought things to an abrupt halt, employing one of her preferred and rather effective control techniques – slipping her hand up my dress and under my panties and digging her well-honed fingernails deep into my vulnerable cheeks. She snatched my glass of high-end blended Scotch on the rocks, brought it under her skirt, discreetly topped it off with a generous splash of her pungent pee, and handed it back to me with a stony stare.
“Drink up, you trashy little cunt. Why do you persist in publicly embarrassing me like this? Does anything I teach you ever take hold in your cluttered brain? Yet another disgraceful performance, Donna.” Madame sighed and shook her head in disgust. I lowered my eyes abjectly and drank up as ordered.
Following a long, icily silent ride home, I received a sound over-the-knee paddling and, a rough session with the strapon, wrists tightly bound, clothespins on my nipples, and a large butt plug crammed in my mouth. I gagged and let it pop out once. For this lapse in control I was administered several sharp swats with the flogger on my legs and back. Madame presently emptied her reservoir of anger and frustration, and all was well again. She hugged me tight, kissed away my tears, and we settled in for another sweet night of cuddling and tender lovemaking. Madame loves me boundlessly, and it is from her abiding love that she provides me with the rigid structure and heavy discipline so essential to my well-being. She is harsh, sometimes even cruel, and she does not hesitate to unleash the full physical and emotional force of her anger on me when duly provoked. Nevertheless, Madame’s volcanic wrath is always carefully channeled towards maximizing my happiness and personal fulfillment. I am a better, more successful person for having unreservedly yielded to my beautiful Mistress’s superior wisdom and unique power.
“Donna, I sense that you’re getting one of your periodic itches for male attention. It couldn’t have been more obvious last night,” Madame said over breakfast the next morning, her head cocked and eyebrows raised. “We need to address this with prompt and decisive action.” I began to sweat and tremble in anticipation of the fearsome array of disciplinary measures that lay ahead. It seemed to me that I’d been more than adequately punished the night before. But who was I to challenge Madame’s judgment in these matters? I recalled my inferior station and kept mute.
Madame tossed her head back and whooped with laughter at her successful jest. “You are too funny, Donna! You thought I was going to put you through another series of punishments, didn’t you? Relax, honey. You weren’t that naughty last night. You certainly pissed me off, but I’m long past it by now,” she said, her warm eyes twinkling with love. “I’ve elected to pursue a softer approach to the problem that I know you’re going to like. There’s no denying that you derive great pleasure from being taken by handsome men, and it hasn’t escaped my notice that you’re much easier to manage when you’ve had a recent healthy dose of cock. From now on I’d like to keep you regularly serviced by quality studs. I think it will make both of our lives easier by preventing future recurrences of last night’s fiasco. You already give me more than enough reasons to spank you. I’d like to keep it down to no more than two or three good thrashings daily so I don’t wear out my right arm and lose all the feeling in my hand,” Madame said with a chuckle and a sly wink. “But don’t get the idea that you’re going to dodge the open palm, lash, and paddle altogether, Missy! You need constant reinforcement and the occasional bite. A dig in the ass or a swig of my piss (I happen to know you love Madame’s tasty tinkle, anyway) will be nowhere near enough to keep a spirited little bitch like you in line.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! My beloved Madame was going to bring me all the choice studs I could ever want! I felt more loved than ever before. She really would do anything to keep me happy. What a wonderful gift!
“By the way,” she added, in a conspiratorial sotto voce. “I’ve been known to partake of the opposite sex myself on occasion. This is going to be great fun for both of us.”
Could it get any better than this? I could have done the happy dance right then and there, but Madame would have frowned upon such an undignified display. This wasn’t the time to push my luck.
“I have an important meeting at my office this morning, so I’ll be going now. I expect this house to be spotless and in perfect order when I return tonight,” said Madame, abruptly shifting conversational gears. Dressed for business, leather briefcase in hand, my loving Mistress whisked herself out the door, got into her cherry red BMW M3 convertible with camel top and interior, and roared out of the driveway. Taking careful note of the time, I quickly set to my chores. One day I’ll finally get it completely right and maybe just once the storm clouds won’t gather the instant I greet Madame at the door.
By 7 p.m. I had completed my long list of household tasks to what I dearly hoped would be to Madame’s satisfaction, and had a scrumptious dinner on the table, hot and ready for her imminent return. Madame had the uncanny ability to arrive home on the hour and this night her record remained intact. I rushed to open the front door for her, giddy with excitement, for I had missed her terribly all day. Madame entered, scanned the foyer, then turned to face me. My broad smile collapsed and my heart sank. The black clouds rolled in and a cold wind whipped up.
“I’m beginning to think you’re hopeless, Donna. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice that you couldn’t be bothered to dust the tops of the paintings? I’ve been patiently watching and waiting since Monday and here it is, the end of my hard work week and the place still looks like hell. Is that a greasy fingerprint I see in the corner of that mirror over there? I’m growing weary of living in this pigsty.” Madame threw her jacket and briefcase on the floor before my feet. I squatted down to pick them up and put them where they belong, but before doing so I kissed and licked the toes of Madame’s black leather, daytime pumps. I removed her things to their proper places, and returned to the foyer where Madame stood waiting with furrowed brow and folded arms.
“Turn around and pull up your skirt.” I obeyed. Madame reached into the drawer of a table that sat against the wall, and pulled out a highly polished, old wooden paddleball racket, which had been drilled with dozens of small holes to reduce wind resistance. Neither of us played the game; Madame had found a better use for the implement. She yanked down my panties and let loose with twenty forceful smacks. Madame meant business; she set my compact little ass aflame in a blast of unmitigated ire. I bit my lip and stifled my pitiful cries, but nothing could hold back my tearful deluge.
Under other circumstances Madame would undoubtedly have punished me further, but corporal discipline is hard physical work, and she’d had a long, exhausting day. I was sufficiently contrite, anyhow, so it wouldn’t have been worth the extra effort. Madame willed away her seething displeasure and we enjoyed a cheerfully animated meal together. We fell asleep in one another’s arms watching mindless, forgettable reality shows.
We awoke to a glorious October Saturday, both of us overflowing with productive energy. Madame and I began the day cruising the yard sales and just plain joyriding in the M3 with the top down. Once I relaxed too much, let my attention flag and my wig flew off in the wind, bounced off the windshield of a trailing vehicle and landed atop a roadside rhododendron. For a moment, I expected Madame to march me into the woods, cut a switch, and whip my still tender bottom for having almost ruined such a fine and costly gift. Instead she simply howled with laughter at my comical dishevelment. Madame had a weakness for cute slapstick (No, she did not like the Three Stooges). I restyled my hair, this time tightly tied it down with a scarf, and off we sped, unable to contain our hilarity for more than a few minutes at a time. Throughout the afternoon we’d look at each other and suddenly erupt in giggly fits in front of puzzled onlookers. We were like a couple of 12-year-old girls trying desperately not to blurt out a riotous secret about a classmate.
Back home, we plunged into yard work – trimming, digging, planting, mowing, etc. It was a sweaty, gratifying afternoon. Madame relaxes her disciplinary regime somewhat on nice weekends, and this day was no exception. She never lets me off the hook altogether, however. At one point, I took an overlong bathroom break, and upon my belated return Madame gave me the “look.” Needing no spoken order, I dropped my dirty jeans and accepted several cursory swats with the back of a garden trowel. I was glad it didn’t happen on a weekday.
We dined on lobster and littlenecks, drank two bottles of wine, revisited the high points of our idyllic day, and retired to our favorite plush sofa. Madame opened her laptop, rubbed her palms together, and said, “Let’s find us a hottie!”
Madame had already laid the groundwork by advertising the two of us in a Craigslist personal. The posting was accompanied by several enticing photos with our privates concealed by black bars, so as to comply with CL terms of service. Madame respected the rules of others to the same strict degree that she expected others to observe hers. The ad offered the promise of unredacted images for those who responded with face pictures of their own.
I was a good cheesecake model and Madame, a naturally skilled photographer who also loved and understood my body, had created a nice portfolio of me in a variety of “come hither” poses prominently displaying my long, shapely legs, sweet cock, and irresistible, pink anus. We’d posted many of these pictures on adult photo sharing sites, and they’d proven remarkably effective at drawing in hordes of panting males begging for a chance to fuck my tight, little hole, and slide their rigid dicks through my soft, full, red lips. I became an overnight transgender porn star, to my everlasting astonishment. Madame had her own extensive fan base, of course. There are women who assume the “BBW” designation who, while indisputably big and indisputably a woman, don’t truly merit the “B” that stands for “beautiful.” No one, however, had a stronger claim to that all-important second “B” than Madame. She was flat-out, eye-poppingly gorgeous, and had devoted admirers all over the world furiously wanking to her images and hoping against hope for even a fleeting moment in her stunning presence. We had a surprising amount of fan overlap, as well. There’s a certain breed of man that loves sexy tgirls and BBWs with equal ardor. A fascinating phenomenon that defies adequate explanation, but we saw no need to overanalyze. Together we formed an extraordinary, compelling, erotic team. They couldn’t get enough of us and oh, how we loved it!
Click here for Part 2
About the Author
In the early to mid-2000s, Donna Queen enjoyed a brief, unexpected, but memorable career as an amateur transgender porn star, with a devoted worldwide following. She is now fully transitioned and happily married to a wonderful woman, and is no longer active in the porn scene, although her pictures and videos remain widely distributed and she often receives fan requests for new material. While she no longer makes visual porn, Donna is a gifted writer of fiction in multiple genres, including BDSM erotica. While Donna writes primarily from her own perspective as a lifelong submissive, she also demonstrates a sure grasp of the dominant’s point of view. Although her work is first and foremost powerfully erotic, Donna strives to create fully realized and authentically human characters, and her stories always reflect her loving, generous spirit and delightfully wicked sense of humor.