Message-ID: <5750eli$9711222313@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: newsmgr@merrimack.edu X-Good-Total-Length: yes Subject: Story: A Pregnant Domina Part 1/2 (Femdom, Fm, CD, Romance) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <009BDA11.F15B8E65.34@merrimack.edu> Relay-Version: ANU News - V6.2.0 06/23/97 OpenVMS AXP V6.2; site chasm Path: chasm!ulowell.uml.edu!newsfeed.wizvax.net!news.interq.or.jp!newsfeed.gol.com!208.4.0.13.MISMATCH!news-chi-13.sprintlink.net!news-chi-1.sprintlink.net!news-east.sprintlink.net!news-peer.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!Sprint!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.bbnplanet.com!newsfeed.gte.net!nntp.flash.net!nntp.newsfirst.com!nntp.crosslink.net!News.NetUSA.Net!qz!not-for-mail Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories.tg,soc.subculture.bondage-bdsm Subject: Story: A Pregnant Domina Part 1/2 (Femdom, Fm, CD, Romance) Message-ID: <5718eli$9711211302@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: tigger@alices.REMOVE.com Date: 21 Nov 1997 18:02:47 GMT Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Lines: 500 NNTP-Posting-Host: alpha.netusa.net X-Trace: news.netusa.net 880135367 5900 (None) 204.141.0.10 X-Complaints-To: News@NetUSA.Net X-Archived-At: X-Auth: alt.sex.stories.moderated X-Original-Message-ID: It happened *AGAIN*. Hope this works . . . The Pregnant Domina by Tigger revised copyright 1997 Part 1 I watched as she struggled to lift herself out of bed. I moved to help her and was rewarded by an angry glare, which I ignored. She didn't stop me as I supported her back and took the off center weight of her body in my arms. Once she was sitting upright, she slid her feet to the floor on the edge of the bed. She rested a moment gathering herself for her next effort. I sat beside her, still supporting her. When she moved to stand, I slyly added my strength to help her move her bulk upright. A near snarl, once she was upright, told me that I had not been as subtle as I thought. She knew I had helped, and she hated needing that help. Mistress Kyra Byers, the woman I love, was almost eight months pregnant, and damned ready for it to be over. The fact that she had to face six more weeks of impending motherhood, combined with the fact that the doctor thought she was not yet as large as she would be were responsible for a lot of her temper. The fact that I was there to witness her incapacity, and worse, that I was giving her help that she needed, made it even worse for her. Frankly, since that first day when I had moved in (well, in all honesty, barged in) with her, she had done her level best to make my life hell, to make me leave, I think. I smiled grimly. Not in this lifetime, lady, I am where I have to be. She shuffled off to the bathroom, her huge tummy forcing her to counterbalance with a back arch that compounded her discomfort. Resignedly, I waited for what I knew would come next. "... Mark." Her voice from behind the door was resigned, even a little defeated. It was killing me. I walked to the bathroom door and knocked softly. "Come in, Mark, I know you are waiting. I can't get up." I entered the bathroom, to find her struggling futilely on the low toilet seat, almost in tears. She was furious with herself for what she perceived as weakness. Not offering comfort that I knew would be rejected, I put my arm back around her and helped her to her feet, letting go once she had regained her balance. I would probably pay for this later. Once that particular humiliation was complete, she abruptly dismissed me from her room and set about getting ready to go to work. Mistress is an executive administrator for one of the large multinationals that had their home base in the city. She was training her replacement and would start maternity leave in about four weeks when that was complete. After the baby was born, she had to decide if she was going to accept a promotion that she had been offered, or whether she was going to take a less demanding job that would give her time for her unexpected family. That choice did not make her very happy either. She came down to the dining room where I served her breakfast. Milk (which she loves), iron fortified hot cereal (which she loathes), a bagel with light cream cheese (which she tolerates), and a chilled orange juice, but no coffee (which she craves). I sat there, drinking my own juice watching her eat, trying not to cringe under her steely glares. She finished the last bite of the cereal, and washed it down with her entire glass of juice. She patted her mouth with her napkin and then got up to gather her bag and briefcase. "Mark, I will be a little late tonight. I will want to test you after dinner, so be prepared." No surprise, there. "But Mistress, we have class tonight after dinner." She hated Lamaze class most of all, and for the life of me, I didn't know why, but she did this to me every Wednesday. Her face clouded, and she collected herself. "Very Well, then we will delay the test until we get home." She gave me a smirk reminiscent of her old, mischievously evil self. "You will be dressed for it, won't you, Mark." I grinned back at her. "As you say, Mistress." She spun as quickly as her tummy would permit and left for work. Her parting shot was her little reminder that "Markie" would be attending Mistress. Markie was my feminized alter ego. Prior to her pregnancy, Mistress had been trying to get me 'out' as Markie and I had fought her every step, even to the point of using my 'safeword'. When Mistress had fiercely fought starting the Lamaze training (that her doctor insisted was mandatory for such a petite woman), I had bargained Markie's debut among the masses against her getting the training she needed. Mistress wanted Markie out in the world more than she wanted to avoid Lamaze, so now Markie is Mistress's very terrified birth coach. So terrified in fact, that I don't even think about passing anymore - I just do. What surprised me was that none of the women gave me a second look. I guess a woman in the final stages of pregnancy isn't going to look very long at anything resembling a 'slender' female. The men, on the other hand, are another story all together. I am constantly under very close scrutiny at the class, by every male there. Only my whole hearted concentration on Mistress keeps me from running screaming into the night. While at class, I keep my words pitched very low as I quietly coach Mistress, so my voice doesn't give me away. I don't think that I look unfeminine in the sweater and jeans Mistress lets me wear (only because the Nurse Midwife said "no skirts". Mistress's first outfit of a short skirt and heels was specifically pointed out as inappropriate by the nurse.). But for all that, I can't shake the awareness of all those males staring at me, evaluating me, and I can't decide whether it is because they see me as the only non-pregnant female in the room, or because my cover is blown. Mistress, naturally, given her normal disposition and her current mood, is no help at all. She just gives me a smirk, or an evil grin, and pats me on the ass, or pinches my cheeks, then tells me to ignore them. Yeah, right, uh huh, sure, Mistress. I first met Mistress a couple of years ago, when I worked for the same company as she did (where she still does work). She is really a tiny thing, only five feet one inch tall, and not quite a hundred pounds. Her hair is black and she has always kept in a short, saucy cut that hugs the elegant shape of her head. She says that she wears it that way because it is easy to maintain. I think it is sexy as all hell. Her eyes are startling green against her almond complexion. She is not classically beautiful, but she is striking, and on the rare occasions when that wonderful smile emerges, the world stops around her just to look at her. I wanted to date her back then, but she did not date co workers. We did become friends, and I learned to like her as well as want her. Later, when I left the firm to start my own business, I asked her out again. That time she accepted. We dated for several months and I began to get very serious about her. To my intense delight and encouragement, we were very affectionate together. We would pet and kiss passionately, but she always stopped before we made love, much to my frustration. That I had been carrying an engagement ring in my pocket for weeks, just waiting for the slightest indication she was ready for us to go further, only made each smiling, good night kiss at her door harder to take. I am ashamed, now, to admit that I started keeping an eye on her. It wasn't stalking, not in the current sense, but I was following her, and watching her home. I started to see a pattern of men visiting her at odd hours on weekends and on nights that we did not have a date. They'd come in, stay for an hour or two, then leave alone. Jealousy billowed up inside me, as I reached an obvious conclusion. This went on for over a week, dating one night, watching her house the next as she would open her door to a man, who would then leave a couple of hours later. Then, I exploded. I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that as one of her visitors was leaving, I barged into her house, ranting and raving - the proto-typical outraged male. One reason I won't bore you with such details is that I don't remember much of it. I pray each night that I did not threaten or try to harm Kyra, but I do know that she felt threatened. She retaliated physically. Not expecting it from her, I did not guard against it. She dropped me with one, well placed kick to the groin, and the world went dark. When I awoke, my groin was on fire, but I could not move to relieve or attempt to ease the pain. My hands were restrained behind me and beneath me as I lay upon my back against a hard surface. I could not move my feet, either. A weight settled on my chest and made breathing difficult. I opened my eyes. The weight was Kyra, but it was a Kyra I had never seen before. When I had forced my way in she had been swathed in a thick, velvety, floor length robe. Now, black lingerie, made of what I now know to be leather, enhanced and presented, rather than hid her charms. Something that looked like my grandfather's razor strops, but with a wooden handle was in her hand. It was then that I realized that she was nude below the waist. The stiff strap poked under my chin to lift my eyes to hers before I could get more than a fleeting look. "I am disappointed, Mark, disappointed and hurt. I thought you were different, that we might be building something together, and you come roaring in here like some possessive, arrogant Lord of the Manor." "You're disappointed? You're hurt?" Every word was punctuated in pain. "I've been faithful to you, I wanted to marry you. Every night you aren't with me you entertain men here." "We have been busy, haven't we?" She scowled down at me. "Well, you would have had to learn before I could have accepted you anyway." Her words were strange, without meaning to me. Learn? Learn what? She continued without giving me a chance to speak "Since you have screwed up so badly, I will at least give you the explanation you seem to want more than you wanted me." It was then that I first learned of Mistress Kyra, Domina. Dominant all her life, Kyra had put herself through school by working in one of the better schools of dominance in the San Francisco Bay Area, and now continued as a practicing dominant as a lark, a sideline, a means of relieving the tension of her high powered position at work, and because she liked it. The men were her slaves, submissives, bottoms - words I had never used in such context before. Men who gave her gifts and money for the opportunity to serve her. I was dumbfounded. "We were so close, Mark, but you couldn't wait, couldn't trust me, couldn't even confide in me." She stood and released the shackles that held my feet. With her weight gone, I could sit up and saw that the shackles were attached to the legs of the living room couch. "Come on, stand up, it is time for you to get out of here." I stood, still favoring my testicles. Surprisingly strong hands gripped me from behind and shoved me to the door. Something grated in the vicinity of what ever held me and I was pushed out the door. "The key is in the lock of the cuffs, Mark. Those cuffs have enough play in them for you to free yourself. Leave, and do not come back. Do not even contact me again. We are through." The door slammed behind me, punctuated by the audible clicks of two deadbolts shooting home. As she said, I was able to free myself, but not without major contortions. My temper was still running high. I pulled the ring out of my pocket, and threw the designer jewel box through her front window, then stomped off to my car and left. The next day, a package arrived by special courier. In it was my ring and a note. "I do not accept gifts from boys who have proven themselves to be unworthy. Mistress Kyra" It should have been all over. She had betrayed me. Only it wasn't. The next three weeks were hell. She scared me, she really did. I knew nothing about such things as she had told me and when I went to the local adult bookstore to check out the magazines and such on D/S, I was even more frightened of her. But I still wanted her. And in the end, I knew that I still loved her. The turning point came when I realized that some of the ads in those magazines were from submissives who were appealing for a dominant. I already knew her, knew her address. I still wanted to be with her. I hoped she still wanted me with her, but she was the wronged party. I had to make restitution. I had to show her that I recognized her true worth. In truth, I did not view myself as a submissive like those men in the magazine. But if such a submission to her was the way to get Kyra back in my life, then that is what I would do. Life as her submissive could not be worse than the way I had lived for the last month without her entirely. I went to a specialty shop and bought a special, antique style writing parchment, complete with a satin ribbon to roll it in. I wrote a letter on that heavy parchment in my very best penmanship. I considered paying a professional calligrapher, but decided against it. This was more personal, more me to her, than that would be. Besides, I did not think I could face sharing this with someone else. In that letter, I acknowledged my guilt and my lack of trust. I begged her forgiveness, and I begged the opportunity to prove my worthiness by serving her in any manner she deemed appropriate. I paid the same courier service to deliver the letter on Wednesday, and then waited by the phone for the next forty eight hours. I was almost in despair when the phone rang at nine PM, Friday night. Her tone was sharp and clipped in my ear, but she sounded like an angel from heaven promising me one last chance at salvation. "I have received your request and I am inclined to test your resolve. If you please me, I may decide to permit you to continue in my service as one of my slaves. I will not give you the chance to hurt me again as you did before. The test I have in mind is demanding and will require you to attend me for the weekend. You may need to plan on taking time off from work next week to recover. Be on my doorstep tomorrow morning at eight o'clock sharp. If you are not there, this is the last time I will ever speak to you." The phone connection broke and I was left listening to the buzz of a dial tone, only then realizing that I had not said a single word. And then I was really scared to death. One of the books I had read told the story of a man who made such a restitution to his lover and had been laid up for a week. Could she do that to me? Memories of the pain in my balls and that wicked strap told me that she was fully capable of it. Would she do it? I did not know, but I would have to chance that if it was what it took to be with her again. I was on her doorstep as ordered and was led into her house where she had me strip and then took my clothes away. In the clear light of now, what actually happened was comparatively gentle. Mistress knew how ill prepared I was for entry into that facet of her life. Looking back, I am sure that the real test was the commitment to show up at all and then to stay until released in the face of the ominous nature of her "invitation". I spent the weekend nude, scurrying about her house doing various menial and humiliating tasks. Of course, my performance never met her exacting standards. I was spanked repeatedly, but it was always by hand, hairbrush or by paddle. (a very gentle paddle I was later to learn). My bottom stung, to be sure, but it was not hurtful, only embarrassing. At the end of the weekend, she released me and gave me back my clothes. She told me that I had earned a place in her stable and that if I worked very hard and pleased her greatly, I might have a chance of something more. I left her that night feeling that I had done something important, although I could not put into words what that was. After that, I became like the men I had watched. One night a week and at least one full day every weekend, I would attend Mistress in her home. It was a full year of such training before I had the courage to face myself as a true sexually submissive male. I am not submissive at all in other facets of my life. I am a demanding, but fair boss, I'm an aggressive player on the tennis courts and on the links, and I am becoming proficient at the martial arts. It is only with Mistress Kyra, that such feelings, such needs are set free to find expression and acceptance. It was during that training that I discovered just how gentle that first weekend had been. I met the strap (or perhaps more correctly, *it* met me), and I did not like it very much - like not at all. Sitting was difficult that week. I experienced bondage positions that made me painfully aware of new and unique muscle groups on the days following those sessions. As ordered, though, I had worked very hard to prove myself to Mistress, and slowly, over time, I felt that she was again coming to think of me as more than a member of her stable. Perhaps not yet as a future mate I still longed to be, a mate who would be submissive to her, to be sure, but still someone to be with her, to be there for her. I continued to work to that goal. Our only disagreement was Markie. After that initial year of training, my first indication that Mistress was starting to value me again was that she gave me a safe word. Up to that point, my safe word was to ask to leave. During the second year, Mistress discovered the female in my soul and worked diligently to bring her out to play. My medium height (for a male) and my slender build, made me ideal (so Mistress delighted in telling me) for cross dressing. She trained me in cosmetics, in color coordination, in mannerisms and in voice inflection. She drilled me relentlessly on how to walk, how to sit, how to flirt. I was trained to play the vamp and the lady. She liked the vamp, my cautious soul lusted after the vamp, but preferred the lady. The blow up came when she decided to debut Markie, and I balked. I was dressed to the nines in a very pretty party dress. Mistress herself had tastefully applied my cosmetics so I looked far better than I ever had before. Secretly, I was thrilled by how I looked, but once she told me what was planned, I panicked. Never mind that she promised that the nightclub would be dark, that it was out of town, that she would get us a private table or that we would not socialize among the patrons, I simply could not face the potential of discovery. She pressed and I finally, scared out of my wits that I would be cast off, but in too much of a dither to do otherwise, code-worded her order. She looked at me in blank surprise. I had taken intense corporal sessions, strict bondage and other equally demanding tests without that crutch being used. She finally sat down and looked at me for the longest time, studying me. "Very well, Mark." That brought me upright. She never called me Mark while I was dressed. "You aren't ready for this. Please go change into your clothes. We are done for today." I thought I was being sent away for good. I opened my mouth to plead, but she kept on speaking. "Come back tomorrow and we will continue your training." Then, she left me and went to her room, locking the door. It was not until much later that it occurred to me that she was giving me space to recover. The next day, it was back to our relationship as usual. And as Markie progressed, Mistress Kyra's hints about a debut took the direction of verbal teasing and humiliation. I noticed that she always watched my face very carefully at those times. I suspect that she would have had me out the door in a second if she saw the slightest acceptance, but she never pressured me on it again. Then came the night about 10 months ago, when we were in her play room and I was bound on my back on a low bench. It was an incredibly playful session. Mistress was in one of her teasing moods and was thoroughly enjoying the game of driving me insane. She kept me on the edge of orgasm until I thought my heart would burst. I guess I was not the only one affected by her game though, because the next thing I knew, she had taken me into her hot, wet depths. I thought I was in Paradise. In all our time together, the closest I got to making love with Mistress was the oral worship which she loved and which she demanded I become superb at. All of my orgasms had been by hand - mine or hers, usually mine so she could watch. The incredible heat, the velvety steel grip drove me wild. The bench creaked in response to my straining. I fought for control, fought to prolong the joy of being one with Kyra. She came, and the world went mad. I was lost and out of control, spurting jet after jet into her as she literally milked me in her orgasm. Mistress passed out and fell against me, my cock still softening inside of her. She came to slowly, then sat up and looked at me quizzically, as if wondering how that had happened. She got off me and, after releasing me, sent me home, very confused. I was not just confused, I was flabbergasted when a call came later in the week on my answer phone. "This is Kyra. You are released from my service. Do not contact me or bother me again. This is good bye." I had sat there, staring at the machine, playing and replaying the message, wondering what I had done. I went to her house, but she would not even answer the door. I went to her office, but she went to the ladies room and then had security escort me out. I was inconsolable. I did not know what I had done or what I could do. I started watching her again, trying to learn anything I could about what had gone wrong. The first thing I realized was that no other men came to see her anymore. In fact, no one visited her anymore. It was very curious. Then, about a month after my dismissal, she left home immediately after arriving from work. I followed her and saw that she went to a Doctor's office. Concerned, I waited for her to come out. When she did, she was moving like a zombie. She seemed confused, in shock. Whatever was wrong, she was in no condition to drive. I met her at her car and took her arm to lead her to my car. It is a measure of just how out of it she was that she let me lead her off so docilely. I drove her home, and settled her onto her bed. I brought her some soup and tea, and watched while she ate it. I was leaving the room when she started to cry. "Kyra, what is it?' I dropped the tray and moved to her side. "What is it? You are sick? What did the doctor say?" Now, I truly understood fear. Everything else was pale in comparison to the soul numbing terror of losing her. She looked up at me with tear filled eyes, and started giggling uncontrollably. "No, Mark, I am not sick, I am pregnant - and I don't even know who the father is...." She broke into sobs again. I gave what comfort I could, just holding her. Finally she fell into a fitful sleep. I spent the night sitting next to her bed, watching over her. The next day, she tried to throw me out, make me leave. I may be submissive, but I am also strong willed about important things - like Kyra. She finally accepted me living there to take care of her in return for my servitude. In reality, she did everything she could to run me off. Everything got more intense, and yes, more painful, but I stuck it out. After she figured out she would have to really injure me to make me leave, she resigned herself to making me merely miserable and doing her level best to humiliate me into turning on her and leaving. That didn't work either, but I have to give her an A for effort. One particular stunt sticks in my mind. I made the typically male mistake of commiserating with her by saying "I know how you feel." Not smart, particularly when dealing with a woman who is not particularly happy with me and one who has some very unusual and specialized connections. Three weeks later I found myself in a rubber body suit that included breasts, and one thing more. A fill connection. Mistress hooked me up to her garden hose and turned on the water. The rubber at my lower abdomen started to fill and in no time, I was preceded by about 25 pounds of water that pulled me off balance and put a tremendous strain on my back and shoulders. The addition of a maternity dress and Markie looked for all the world to be about ten months pregnant. I spent that entire day waddling about the house trying to accomplish the daily tasks Mistress had assigned me, trying to stand and sit without killing myself, and continually rubbing at the small of my back. The absolute killer was when she insisted that the kitchen floor be scrubbed and waxed (by hand!. My back still quivers in the memory of supporting that off balance weight on my knees and one hand while trying to handle the scrub brush. Before finally emptying the water balloon and releasing me to go to bed, Kyra had looked me squarely in the eye and said, "NOW, you know PART of what I feel." After that, I got to be "pregnant" at least one day a week after that, although she never filled the suit quite *that* full again. I got her point, though, and made it my point never to be quite so placating again. -- -------- Spam email has forced me to encrypt my "reply to" header address. Please remove .REMOVE from the address. Sorry for the inconvenience. tigger at alices dot com -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> / -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /