Mistress Diabolique settled back comfortably in her sun lounger and allowed the sun's rays to warm her lush, ripe body. Although she had recently entered the "filthy 40s", she had a figure that would have been the envy of a woman 15 or even 20 years her junior.
Full, firm, nipple-erect 34DD breasts stood out on her chest, the work of an excellent Harley St plastic surgeon. As one of her clients had remarked "I don't care if they're fake, I wanna slobber all over 'em". Sometimes Americans could be so crude, she thought.
Her waist was a slender 24 inches, and her hips blossomed to a superb 34. Her buttocks were firm and high – no cosmetic surgery was required there – and her legs were long and well-shaped. When she stood she measured a lovely 5 foot 8 inches, but in some of her high-heeled stilettos she towered over many a man – or, in her case, slave.
Mistress Diabolique had long, light brown hair, so light it was almost blonde. She had matching brown eyes, although they were darker than her head hair. Her minge hair, merely a narrow strip some five inches long which pointed to her steamy snatch, had been shaved away. She did not depilate there, no Brazilian for her. She shaved often, enjoying the erotic feel of hand on razor as it caressed her folds.
Her latest slave, the lovely Caleb, an 18-year-old nephew, had oiled her firm body with suntan lotion, his prick rising in the front of his posing pouch as he saluted his mistress. Since his arrival from the capital on his annual visit to his Aunt Debbie – Mistress Diabolique's real name was Debbie Danvers – Caleb had enjoyed the morning ritual of preparing her statuesque figure for her sunbathing.
Now, wearing only the small scrap of black PVC which covered his cock and balls but left his athletic young buttocks bare, he was straining and heaving as he pushed the roller back and forth on her superbly-mowed lawn. The sun beating on his near-naked body had produced a sheen of sweat that made his almost-six-foot frame glisten in the light.
Mistress Diabolique, her head sheltered from the sun's rays by a large, floppy sun hat, sipped on her fruit cordial. She had been drinking it for an hour and it was having the desired affect. Soon she would need to employ the garment which Caleb had laid across the back of her recliner. But until such time as nature took its remorseless toll and demanded she relieve herself, Mistress Diabolique was content to leaf through her latest domination directory, or "checking out the opposition" as she referred to it.
Her own entry in the directory, which was published around the world, was a stunning advertisement. It showed her clad in a figure-hugging black leather brassiere and hot pants, with boots which came to half-way up her glorious thighs. It announced her charges, her specialities and her mobile phone number. And her website.
That had been set up by a computer "whizz", who not only was good at creating a website that was the envy of many a professional dominatrix, but was also a devotee of the lash and minge worship. He was also rather wealthy. Mistress Diabolique realised that this last attribute was possibly the most important, now that the site was up and running.
Draining the last glass of her cordial, Mistress Diabolique called softly: "Boy!" It was not a snapped call, none of the "In your face" commands that many mistresses use to address their slaves. Mistress Diabolique preferred the more friendly, erotic manner of "gentle persuasion".
Caleb stopped his menial, and muscle-aching task of rolling the lawn, and stepped to the side of his aunt's recliner. "You called, aunty?" he said, in an expectant tone.
Again, Mistress Diabolique did not require him to address her as "Mistress", "Domina", "Madam" or any other of the more theatrical forms of greeting beloved by so many ladies in the female domination business. And, after all, he
was
her nephew, she mused.
Smiling at the sweating stud, his pubic mound shaved bare of hair, Mistress Diabolique stretched out a hand and traced it over his lovely buns. "Be a darling, Caleb, and fetch me another jug of cordial, there's a pet," she ordered, in a perfectly reasonable voice, even though it was a command.
The boy departed, his back gleaming, his muscles rippling, his jet-black hair shining an almost blue sheen as it fell to his muscular shoulders. Great, she thought, it's Sunday and my day of rest. Just perfect for some mild teasing and tormenting.
She had been in the domination game – although she preferred to regard it as "the theatre of sex" - for almost 10 years now, ever since she found that many men were only too glad to prostrate themselves at her feet and grovel for indignities to be heaped upon them.
Caleb, despite his youth, was simply the latest addition. He had fallen for her charms easily on his latest visit. Mistress Diabolique had left magazines devoted to the arcane art of femdom, scattered around the house and it had been a simple task to "come across" him, seated on a couch, thick, seven-inch, uncut cock in his hand as he perved all over
