Message-ID: <20015eli$9902170452@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: tigger@alices.com (Tigger) Subject: [Story] The Phoenix Domme (FemDom, Romance, F/m) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: tigger@alices.com Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii 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: <36cc3e61.3392069@news.erols.com> The Phoenix Domme by Tigger Copyright 1999, all rights reserved This story is intended for the enjoyment of adults who enjoy erotica involving Female Dominant/Male Submissive relationships and who live in localities where such materials are legal. If that does not describe you, please leave. Archiving/reposting of this story is acceptable provided that no fee (including so called adult checks) are charged for the use of the archive, and provided that my authorship and copyright are included unchanged. The first grey shadows of the February night were beginning to darken the street when they finally made their vehicle. Michael reflected that if he needed any verification that Vicky was exhausted, her silent acquiescence to riding in the chair was all the proof he needed. Well, three hours in the morning with the occupational therapist and four hours in the afternoon with the physical therapist would do that to a body. He was tired just having to watch her go through all that, but then, it was always hard watching the one you loved suffer. Had it really been less than six months since that night? They'd been driving to a party, both of them happily on edge. Michael was excited because of the small velvet box he had hidden in his carryall; Vicky was excited for a similar reason, but Michael had not known that until . . . .until after. . . His eyes closed and once again he saw the glare of headlights coming around a blind curve heading toward them on the wrong side of the road. Vicky had tried to dodge, but there just wasn't enough time or enough road room. The pickup truck had clipped them just forward of the driver's side door, and then launched them over the barricade and into the deep, rocky ravine that ran along the mountain highway. Police reconstruction estimated that the car flipped at least twice on its way down before coming to a stop almost right side up. Only the quick action of the truck driver had saved Vicky's life. He'd called the local rescue paramedics on his CB and ten minutes after the accident, they were on the scene, doing their best to save the two victims. Michael had come through it relatively unscathed - a few scratches, a couple of bruises, but nothing major. He'd been hurt worse in his last scene with Vicky. Not even a concussion. Vicky had not been so lucky. The initial impact of the accident had crushed her left leg from knee to hip, and broken glass from the supposedly shatterproof windshield had all but severed her right hand at the wrist. The doctors had not been able to save either. ~-------~ Michael handed Vicky into the car and took care of the wheelchair before sliding into the driver's side. Vicky had not driven since the accident, although she'd been capable of doing so for the past couple of months. She'd pretty much mastered the prosthetic pincer hand that she'd been fitted with, and she did not need her left foot to drive the automatic transmission car. She simply chose not to. As she had with many other things in her life. Simply stated, Mistress Vicky had not attempted to be in any way dominant with Michael since the night of the accident. She'd accepted his assistance and help because she had needed it, but not once had she done anything more than *ask* for any help she needed.. Not one phrase that might be construed as an order. Not a single command, demand or discipline. Nothing. Nor had there been any lovemaking. Which was the saddest part of all, Michael thought. He'd discovered the reason Vicky had been so excited during that fateful trip to the play party when the police had returned her carryall several days later. It was a collar - black leather, almost two inches wide with a riveted-on engraved gold plate. _michael - beloved slave of Mistress Vicky_ Evidently, he'd not been the only one who'd planned a surprise for that evening. The drive home was passed in silence. Vicky had leaned back in her seat, and closed her eyes. Whether that was because she was really asleep, or simply did not want conversation, Michael didn't know. He missed his bubbly, smiling lover and Mistress, with her almost continuous line of chatter. She'd lost so much - did she have to lose that, too? He'd lost, too, and there were times he wanted to rail against God for it, but knew he had no right to such self indulgence. He was so bloody tired of being strong, but that was part of being the submissive, too. Sometimes the knight just had to persevere in silence, without fanfare, without any reward other than what he could find in a duty well done. But it was so hard, and Michael knew he could not have done it for anyone other than Vicky. He parked the car in the garage and came around to help her into her chair. "No, Michael." she said, reaching for her cane. "I want to walk into the house." Michael said nothing, but stayed close to her as she made her slow way up to the front door. If she noticed him walking in lifeguard station, she did not say anything - she just waited for him to unlock the front door and let her inside. Dinner was another quiet affair. If she hadn't asked him to pass the salt or pepper, nothing would have been said at all. Michael had learned quickly enough after Vicky had come home from the hospital that she would not respond to any of his overtures at conversation. If she wanted to talk, she'd talk and that was it. She just didn't want to talk very often anymore. After the meal, she simply took her cane and struggled out of the kitchen without a word. Michael sighed, wishing it had been different, but this was the way things had been. He watched her until she turned into the front room, and then went back to the table to clear away and clean up from dinner. She was in her favorite chair, staring at the fire dancing in the hearth. Michael wanted to kneel before her, to ask if there was anything he could do to give her back some joy in her life, but knew she'd only close up on him as he had early in her convalescence. Instead, he moved over to the other chair and took his own seat. He watched her for several minutes before he noticed her holding a piece of paper between the pincers of her right "hand". Every minute or so, she'd shift her gaze from the fire to the paper and then back to the fire. Finally, she acknowledged his presence and turned pain filled eyes to him. "I have put this off long enough." she said in a barely audible voice. "But today, my physical therapist told me that I had gained about as much dexterity with my claw as I am likely going to. She is thrilled by the way. Said I was doing tremendously, and that there was very little I wouldn't be able to do with it." Her voice broke at that moment and Michael saw the sparkle of tears in her lovely eyes. "Very little. . ." "Vicky. . " Michael started to get up, but was stopped by a preempting wave of her left hand. "I also am doing wonderfully well with my walking according to her. It's just a matter of building up my stamina and I will be able to walk just perfectly. . . as long as I go in a straight line. The artificial knee joint won't handle too much side to side stuff, though. I fall down when I try to do a weight shift from right to left." A ragged sob broke her. "She said. . .she said. . I wouldn't be able to play golf." She was crying harder now, and nothing on God's earth would have stopped Michael from going to her, and pulling her into his arms. They stayed like that, locked together, for a long time until Vicky regained control. Stiffly, she interposed her left hand between them and pushed Michael back. He moved, but reluctantly. Vicky retrieved the paper she'd dropped at some point during their hug. She looked at the document one last time and then turned it so that Michael could see what it was that she held. "Our. . our contract?" he asked shakily. A sad smile flitted across Vicky's tear streaked face. "Yes. Our contract." Then her face went blank and she turned back to the fire. "I am releasing you from my service, Michael. I want you to leave me, to get on with your life and let me get on with my own." Her voice was cold, emotionless, devoid of any life or sparkle. With a sudden move of her hand, she flipped the piece of paper toward the fire. Michael moved without thought, throwing himself toward the hearth and caught the paper just before it would have reached the first tongues of flame. He landed hard on his side and then rolled into a sitting position on the floor looking up at her. "Why the hell did you do that?" he yelled. "This," and he thrust the contract up into the air, "means something. We signed this in love, dammit. And that hasn't changed, at least not for me." The tears were falling again, silently this time, but no less heartbreaking. "That contract is between Mistress and slave, Michael." she whispered hoarsely. "And I can no longer be your Mistress." "What?" His bellow surprised her enough that her head snapped up and for a moment, anger flashed in her dark eyes. But it was only for a moment, and then the bleak despair was back. "I cannot be your Mistress anymore, Michael." "You don't love me anymore? Is that it?" "Don't be a fool." she snapped. "If I didn't love you, I would keep you here instead of letting you go find a Mistress who can give you what you need!" "I need you, Vicky." he said softly. "I can't be what you need anymore, Michael. How can I domme you in this condition, Michael?" She held up her claw. "I can't hold a paddle or a crop, and you know I have no dexterity with my left arm. As for binding you? Isn't that a laugh." she tried to laugh, but it came out as another sob. "I can't even button my blouse without a great deal of concentration and effort. And my left leg buckles when I try to do a swinging motion, even if I could hold a toy in what now passes for my hand." "Vicky. . " "No! I have made up my mind, Michael. Can you imagine me in my leathers, Michael? Or how about my latex catsuit? Or . . .or my lovely high . . . high heeled thigh boots." She broke down again. "You see? That's what I learned today, when that woman told me how *well* I was doing. I can do everything I ever did, except the things that enable me to be your Mistress." "And you think that is important? That those things are important?" Michael asked, his voice low and harsh. "Michael, you were a player before we ever met. You are a sensation player, too. Your ideal scene always involves some corporal." She lifted her right arm again. "Can you imagine me spanking you with this?" Vicky shook her head. "Of course not. Neither can I. Michael, I cannot give you what you need." Vicky's head dropped and her voice fell into a whisper. "I cannot dominate you like this." *She means it* Michael thought incredulously. *She honestly thinks that I should leave her because she has decided she cannot be the domme anymore.* "And if I decide not to leave? If I decide to stay here? With you?" "Noooooo!" she screamed, "You can't do that. I won't *let* you do that. I *order* you to leave me and get on with your life." Cold rage filled Michael. "It doesn't work that way, Vicky. You think any of that matters to me? How *dare* you?" Michael was literally shaking in hurt and anger. "Wait right there!" he ordered. "Don't you *dare* move, damn you! I will be right back!" Vicky watched in stunned dismay as Michael stormed out of the room. He returned minutes later with his arms filled with a mass of leather straps, toys and fetish clothing. *Lord* Vicky thought, *he must have cleared out our toy locker and my play clothes chest.* Michael threw his load onto the floor at Vicky's feet and opened a large plastic garbage bag. He snatched up her beloved thigh boots. "You say you can't wear these anymore? Are these intrinsic to your dominance?" he tossed them into the garbage bag before grabbing a cat o'nine tails. "Can't use this anymore? Well, let's throw away that part of your dominant personality, too." In minutes, every toy, every restraint, every piece of attire, had gone into the bulging bag whereupon, Michael spun the bag and tied off the top. "I have just thrown away everything you say you need to dominate me, Vicky. Odd that I never realized that it was all in those props before. How blind of me not to notice that I was submitting to this trash and not to you." "Damn you, Michael. You might as well toss all those things. I can't use them ever again." "No, Damn *you*, Vicky. Damn you for thinking my submission is such a shallow, soulless thing. Since when is your dominance merely physical? Do you really think I would have given myself over to some adolescent's fantasy of a human Barbie Doll in leather carrying a whip? Well, I damn well didn't. I gave myself to *you* - to Vicky and Mistress Vicky - to the only woman I have ever met with the strength and the integrity to take my submission and make it and me her own. To the woman whose love was strong enough to take me to heaven when I deserved it and to hell when I needed it." "But I can't do those things anymore, Michael." she repeated again. "Really? Have you forgotten our very first scene? I do. It was on our third date. We were at a nice restaurant. We were both fully clothed and you never so much as slapped me, and yet I was in subspace so quickly I did not know what happened. Have you lost that, too? Because if you have, then you've lost more than a leg and a hand. But I refuse to believe that the woman I love would *ever* be diminished like that." "How can you say that?" She sobbed. Michael moved back over to her, picked her up and then sat down with her on his lap. He put his hand in her artificial one. "Because it's true. Oh, you have taken some knocks and you are still finding your way, but you are still Vicky, the woman I love, the woman I kneel to. You may be able to find a way to leave me, but I will keep coming back." They sat there, quietly holding one another, his hand never leaving her artificial one. Slowly, gradually, he felt her body begin to relax. "You would, wouldn't you?" she sighed. "What am I going to do with you, Michael?" "Love me? Dominate me as you wish, when you wish? Live with me and be my love?" "I don't think I will ever let you go again, Michael. Tonight I can, because I know just how much I have lost that gave us both pleasure. If you don't leave tonight, I will keep you with me always, even if that is not what is best for you." "*YOU* are what's best for me, Vicky. Besides, I don't think I could give another woman my submission. It is no longer mine to give; it and I belong to you, now and forever." With great ease, Michael stood and settled Vicky back onto her chair. Slowly, with dignity and purpose, he knelt before her, placing his right hand over his heart, his left hand on the floor between her feet. "I pledge myself to you, Mistress Vicky, renewing the vow of fealty and love I made to you the night we signed that contract." Vicky began to reach out with her right hand, and then stopped herself. Michael cocked an eyebrow at her in challenge. Carefully, she moved the metal fingers closer to him until they rested gently against his forehead. The tears were back, but this time they shimmered around a smile that lit her entire face. "I accept your pledge, Michael and renew my vow of love and protection in my keeping, that I made to you the night we signed our contract. Stand, Sir Michael." Michael took her right hand, lowered it to his lips and kissed it before rising. "Michael?" She asked, the uncertainty back in her voice. "Yes, Mistress?" "I would like to make love with you. The doctor said I could. . it's just that . . .well, it's kind of ugly . . .down there. . where my . . ." A gentle finger touched her lips to stop her. "I thought you'd never ask." he said as he again swung her up into his arms. "I hope you aren't planning on sleeping tonight, Mistress. I have a whole lot of lost time to make up for. I have missed bringing you to pleasure." The next morning, Michael awoke to feel Vicky trying to get up. He started to help her. "Don't you *dare* move, Michael!" The order was immediate, in a tone of voice he hadn't heard in far too many months. "But I was just going to . ." Her hand came down on his mouth, and her eyes loomed above him, icy blue and hard. "I know what you were going to do, and I want to do it myself. I know you are only trying to help, but you aren't. Now, I want you on the floor, on your knees until I get back or until I call for you to assist me. Is that *very* clear, Michael?" "Yes, Mistress." he replied, hurt warring with pleasure in his voice. Watching her struggle to the bathroom with her cane was nearly the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life - harder than the most painful session he'd ever experienced, harder than the worst punishment she'd ever inflicted on him. Only sitting in the waiting room of the hospital that night six months ago while the doctors fought to save her leg and hand, and then listening to the grim faced young doctor afterwards had been more difficult for him. Michael watched in awe as she made her way back towards him. He could see the strain on her face, could see the sheen of sweat as she made each step of progress until she reached the bed. After seating herself on the edge of the bed, she prodded him gently with the cane. "Turn and face me, Michael." He started to rise and was rewarded with a gentle tap of the walking stick on his shoulder. "I did not say rise, slave. I said face me." Abashed at his faux pas, Michael spun on his knees, his head drooping at the reprimand. Vicky reached down and lifted his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. Her eyes were gentle, loving, but he could also see the old determination back in their depths as well. "You've gotten used to topping me, Michael." His eyes went wide and he started to protest, but she cut him off. "It's true, dear. For one thing, in the beginning, I needed it. I was too depressed to do properly for myself and would have wasted away, become a bitter and helpless thing if not for you bullying me, driving me to therapy, badgering me to practice with my claw. Once I got past most of that, I let you keep on doing it. It was easier and it kept you here when I desperately wanted to keep you here." "I would never have left you . .Vicky . . Mistress. Never." "I know that, fool, now I know that. But that is not the point. Last night, you told me I was still your Mistress, reminded me that dominance, like love, is more than toys, more than gimmicky clothing, more than just the physical things and the physical expression. True love and true dominance both come from the heart and from the head, and are defined by the two people involved for themselves. I understand that now - I'd forgotten for a while, but thanks to you, I know that once more." "I am glad, Mistress." "I am glad you are glad, Michael, *but* it means that you have to let me *be* the Mistress again. I know that in your mind, anticipating my needs, helping me, doing for me was likely an expression not only of your love, but of your submission." Michael's eyes went wide at her perception and she smiled at him. "Thought so, but now it is time for me to do for myself what I can do for myself. From this point on, Michael, I will consider any unrequested assistance from you, outside of your regularly assigned chores, as topping from the bottom, and I will deal with that accordingly. Do you understand?" "But. . but. . what if you fall, and I could have prevented it. . or . . or. ." A finger touched his lips. "Then I fall, Michael. People do. I will try not to, but I probably will. You can assure yourself that I am not hurt and help me up if I ask you to, otherwise, let me pick myself up. Got it?" He got it, but he didn't like it. She could get hurt. He had to protect her like he hadn't be able to that . . . "What is it, Michael?" she snapped. "What is it that made you look like you were going to cry?" He shook his head, but she was having none of that. "Tell me, Michael. Let me remind you that your oath includes complete honesty, sir." "I couldn't protect you, Vicky. You got hurt and I couldn't do anything and I have lived with that for six god damned months. No matter what the punishment, I don't know if I can follow that last order." Vicky thought about that, and then rolled onto the bed. "Up on the bed, Michael. Hold me." she ordered. Even she was surprised at how quickly she was wrapped into a bearhug by a voilently shuddering male body. She let the emotion play itself out before she spoke again. "You say you did not protect me. All right, what should you have done? More importantly, What could you have done?" He was quiet for several moments, but Vicky let the silence drag on, knowing that he had to answer first. "I don't know." he finally admitted. "Maybe if I'd been driving . . " "Maybe we'd both be dead. We can't know that. Michael, you have to let that go. We're both alive, and if not quite as we were, we can still grow. All right. If you think I am going to fall where I could get hurt, you may rescue me. *HOWEVER*," she continued when she felt him start to speak, "If I don't think I would have fallen, I will punish you for topping. That is the best deal you are going to get, Mister." She felt his tears on her breasts where she held him to her. "Thank you, Mistress. Thank you, Vicky." "And another thing, Michael. I want you to see a psychologist. I'm thinking I am not the only one in this family who needs therapy." "A head shrinker, Mistress?" his head came up and he looked down at her with horrified eyes. "I don't need a " "I say you do, dearheart, and I am the Mistress. Consider it an order." The softness of her tone did nothing to hide the steely determination. "Yes, Mistress." he said, trying but not quite succeeding in hiding the resignation in his voice. "Very well. Now, I feel in serious need of some hugs. You probably need practice after all these months. Remember, hugs are loving, not sexy unless I tell you otherwise." There was a smile on her face as he pulled her more tightly into his arms and they cuddled for a long time. Finally, she spoke. "I hope this works, Michael." "It will, Mistress, we will make it work. From the chewing out I just got, I *know* it will work." he said grinning. She thought about that and nodded. "I am sure you are right. I just wish we weren't giving so much up. Dammit, slave, I *like* seeing those cute buns of yours go red under my paddle, weal under my crop." Michael thought about it and then a glimmer of an idea hit. "You know, Mistress, that old-time pirates used to walk on rolling ship decks with peg legs. They didn't have a joint, but they didn't buckle when the weight shifted to the side, either." "I suppose." she said, wondering what that had to do with anything they'd been talking about. "And I bet there are carpenters or other craftsmen who use hand tools who lose their hands, too. That's why there are occupational therapists. . . to help folks like that relearn old skills, or learn new ways to do things." What Michael was getting at finally got through Vicky's passion fogged mind. "Now wait just a minute, Michael, if you think I am going to that fuddy duddy old maid therapist and ask her for help learn how to whip you again. . " "Why not?" Michael asked reasonably. "Suppose you'd been a pro- domme? She is supposed to help folks with stuff like that, isn't she?" "But it isn't my job, silly." "So what? It is a quality of life thing." Michael said stubbornly. "Oh God, I can just imagine the look on her face." Vicky began to giggle, and then to laugh - a sound that had not been heard in far too long a time. "Well, it is her job. ." Michael continued stubbornly, only to have his words cut off by Vicky's mouth ravaging kiss. "Time for the "sexy" part, slave." ~-----------------~ Vicky stood before the mirror and gave herself a last once-over. She decided she looked . . .dangerous. The white satin, blouse sleeved shirts was unbuttoned nearly to her navel, disappearing into a wide waist belt. A red bandana covered her hair, the tie- off knot hanging off to one side of her head. A black, modern plastic "pegleg" had replaced her more normal walking prosthetic leg. It had been designed long so that she could wear her high heeled thigh boot on her right leg. A pair of black satin shorts completed her "pirate Mistress" outfit. She considered putting on a sexy little eyepatch but decided it might ruin her depth perception, and she wanted to be able to see and judge distances as well as she could tonight. Satisfied, she moved confidently towards the curtain and stepped out onto the makeshift stage her friends had put up for this special evening. A smattering of applause greeted her as she strode over to center stage where Michael was bound over a hassock. Carefully, she reached down to grab his hair and lift his head. Bending over at the waist, she pressed her mouth to his. "I love you, Michael. I adore you, my darling slave." Before he could answer, she moved over to the table that had been setup beside him. Several odd items were arrayed there and she picked up one that looked like a fingerless gauntlet with strands of leather streaming from one end. She slipped this over her right wrist and snapped the flogger. To Vicky's surprise, embarrassment, and then utter fury, Michael *had* raised the issue of peglegs and floggings with her occupational therapist. The bigger surprise was that the woman had not even blinked at the request and had immediately set about helping Vicky find workable solutions to her problems. The utility gauntlet that replaced her claw for play was one of those accommodations, and she had items from floggers to crops to paddles to whips that she could swing with her right arm while braced against the pegleg. Of course, Michael had paid for that bit of anticipatory topping of her. As he himself had pointed out, dominance was not only a physical thing, nor, as he quickly discovered, was punishment. She'd given him an up close demonstration of that truth when she'd ordered him to take her out to dinner that night . . . to a sushi bar. One of her beloved's little quirks was an absolute loathing for seafood of any kind, even the cooked variety. He'd gotten the message that he'd stepped over the line *big time* when she'd made him sample every offering on the bar, chewing each bite thoroughly until she gave him permission to swallow. Even a couple of items that she wouldn't dream of eating herself. She'd even purchased some as take out and had fed it to him for the next few nights in his dog bowl. Michael had spent the week after his demonstration of poor judgement as "mikkie" the poodle. Except for when he'd gone to work, her darling had spent his days on all fours - eating whatever she put in his bowl, doing his elimination in the back yard and sleeping on the rug at the foot of her bed. He wouldn't pull that little trick *again* anytime soon. It didn't matter that Vicky was *delighted* with the outcome of his questioning the therapist, it was the principle of the thing. Checking her gauntlet one last time, Vicky picked up another item from the table. Walking back to Michael's head, she laid the special collar over his neck. She pinched the special latch together with her thumb and forefinger until it snapped together. "With this collar, I proclaim you my slave and my love forever, Michael." she intoned. With great pride, she spun the collar so that the latch was now behind his neck. Looking down at him, her eye flew, as it had so many times that day, to the ring burning emerald fire on her ring finger. It was one reason she wasn't wearing a gauntlet on her left hand to match the wrist gauntlet on her right - so she could see it anytime she wanted to look at it. So far, she thought as she moved to take her place behind her lover so she could begin the ceremonial flogging. *We've come so far from that night when we were both ready to give each other these gifts, and infinitely farther from the night I tried to send him away. Thank God he said no.* With that, Vicky began to swing the leather strips in a figure eight, and once she had the feel of them, struck the first blow of the rest of their lives. -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----