Sweet as Hell (by Stephen Lawrence)

The halls are just familiar enough to not be alien to the senses, yet as Farrah walks down the paths she’s traversed a time or two in the past, she feels unaffected by her surroundings.  The first sojourn was met with a considerable amount of wonder.  The second brought with it a flush of power and self-discovery.  This third walk into the Dungeon… it is a trek in search of peace.  Farrah’s recent travails are common knowledge for anyone partaking of social media, whether she likes it or not, with chances strongly pointing to the latter.  Her wars with Guilty Pleasure, the sudden and considerable expansion of her family and, of course, the latter’s constant situations put on blast across Twitter and elsewhere.  The third of these being of such a magnitude that her boyfriend, James Cornett, has gone into seclusion to tend to his children away from the public eye, temporarily forsaking business and wrestling to do so.  And Farrah, as is so often the case, willingly follows him into this self-imposed partial exile.

With the lives of two hanging in the balance with every passing second, and the importance of her family to her, adopted or otherwise, what is it that brings Farrah to this den of dark desires?  She needs not look where she is going, knowing her way well enough already, yet the Jersey Hellcat still manages to look lost.  Eventually she comes upon a door and her bare hand comes to rest on the handle.  For the first time, tension is apparent throughout her body.  The cropped denim jacket littered with rock band patches, spikes, leather bits and other pieces of metal is appropriate, yet it seems to hang heavy on her shoulders.  The white peasant blouse tied at her midriff exposes both an amazing core and the sparkle of a ruby navel ring.  Matching said gem is the gypsy-style skirt hugging close at her waist but nowhere else.  A brief breeze sends the hem flapping about, revealing tightly-laced leather boots up to just an inch below her knee and the smooth, flesh-toned layer of silk beneath them.  She is, in a word, beautiful.  Beautiful… yet lost.

With a hand finally settling on the door’s handle, Farrah pauses.  Her fingers flex then re-apply themselves to the brass knob, clenching tighter than the first time.  Lowering her head, loose bangs fall before her eyes, the messy braid draped over her right shoulder swaying a bit with the simple motion.  Lifting up once more, the Crimson Angel’s jaw sets and she turns the latch, pushing open the heavy door.  And awaiting her is a woman with hair the color of sweet summer in a posture denoting pure devotion.  Hands rest upon a lap mostly sheathed in a skirt of supple leather accented by an apron of white satin and lace with a matching cap set within her honeyed strands.  Her efforts to remain still are nearly for naught as the door opens.  Her control nearly crumbles to dust as she catches the scent of the woman before her.  The poor thing shakes visibly… until…

“And here you are.”

...until she hears that voice and feels the fingertips upon her cheek, slidingly slowly beneath her chin.  Daring to lift her head only as guided, the kneeling woman dares a single glance upward, quickly averting again.  But not before a faint smile laced with utter joy is viewed.

* * *

The modified ballroom, soon to serve as a club of utmost exclusivity and class, looks far more like a restaurant and bar than anything else.  Polished surfaces abound from floor to tables to counter, chairs cushioned with plush velvet and several rearranged and remastered pieces of art from various mediums strategically-placed in someone’s brand of erotic feng shui… it was as if mingled spirits of domination and submission became one and created a sanctum for all their joys and desires.  Farrah, seated at one of the central tables, traces her fingertip around the rim of a wine glass filled with pinot grigio.  A few spare sips have been taken, but little more.  Next to her chair, once again upon her knees, the leathered maid known now only as Honey, sits in silence.

Silence… and utter joy.

“It has been too long, maid.  Enough that I actually began to miss you despite so many attempts to draw my ire in the past.  Strange, isn’t it?”

Honey knows better than to reply, either respectfully or in the acerbic manner she was once known for.  Defiant fire still courses through her veins with every beat of her young heart, yet now… now with a woman she looks upon with reverence oft reserved for gods and goddesses, she feels no need to give in to that fire.  She is proper and still.  Back straight, knees slightly parted, head lowered.  She knows the question has no proper answer.

“It all started so… acrimonious between us.  That stain never did come out of Zoey’s dress.  Did you know that?”

There is just enough edge in Farrah’s tone to make Honey involuntarily flinch.  She remembered all too well that day… well, those days to be precise.  It was in this very room, in fact, Honey would recall.  Her mind slipped back to that day unwillingly, to her jostling the serving tray just enough to spill tea all over Zoey’s jacket and skirt.  It seemed amusing to her once at the time, though she was unsure why.  The twenty-four hours spent in stocks, chained at every limb, her jaw aching intolerably from the hard plastic intruder that left a puddle of saliva beneath her… it reminded her that such defiance was not worth it.

And as involuntary as the remembrance are the tears that well in her soft eyes.  They would spill only if she blinked.  She must not blink.  Not in the face of… of… oh, Farrah’s hand moved.  It had rested in her lap but now it approaches Honey.  Was she… was she...

“She forgives you, by the way.  Zoey has a heart big enough to love the world, maid.  Even someone who willingly stoked her rarely-exposed wrath.  I expect you to thank her for that forgiveness when next you see her.”

“Y-Yes, my lady.”

When the strike does not come, Honey feels that perhaps she was tense for nothing.  It was not like the old days.  Not like the first time they met.  A cross word led to her finding herself wanting for air within moments.  The taunting continued and the chain grew tighter.  Only in the spare seconds before unconsciousness did Honey realize that Farrah, awesome in even the silent form of her fury, did not possess mercy.  That was Honey’s first clue.  The stocks were the third.  What of the second, then?  Days of being ignored, of being treated like an object… of not having a name nor place.  Honey was a non-entity, an imaginary presence easily ignored and outright shunned.  To think that it would come to this now after those times… and the poor maid could not contain herself any longer.

Her hands rise from her lap and go to her face, a poor attempt to hide tears falling from her eyes.  Shoulders shake and her breathing becomes stilted.  As much as she fights not to make a sound, whimpers do escape beneath her palms.  The maid is fully aware that this breach might mean punishment but for the life of her she cannot make herself care or worry.  It is simply too much!  And Farrah?  She watches.  Her full attention rests upon the maid and that weight is eminently felt by the leather-clad woman, leading to the sobs coming harder, wracking her beyond the point of even an illusion of control.  Then, the crimson-haired woman speaks, her voice soft enough to not startle, yet firm enough to demand attention.

“Look at me.”

What little cosmetics are allowed the maid are now a fine mess upon her smooth features.  Her eyes are red and her full lips tremble like a leaf in the breeze.  Inwardly she steels herself.  Outwardly… she is as fragile as a dandelion.  One errant breath and she will go to pieces.

“I have been away far too long.  For that, you are owed an apology.  Certainly you understand the gravity of such a statement, do you not?”

In this place, Farrah felt herself become someone else.  She wasn’t the Jersey Hellcat, dealing out punishment and destruction in the wrestling ring.  She wasn’t the Rated-F firebrand verbally lacing and lashing her opponents into oblivion.  And she wasn’t a member of Mercyless, screaming out songs to rend the soul and lighten the heart on stage with her band.  No… she was someone else entirely.  A woman without a name, a force of nature without restraint which, in an odd turn, was a restraint in and of itself.

She was, dare she even think it, a Mistress.

“If a Mistress cannot do right by her maid, how can she do right by her family?  By her own self?  In my absence, your patience has been impeccable.  According to Lady Katalina, you have improved each and every day, sometimes in small degrees, sometimes great.  And where have I been during this?  Where has been this guiding hand?”

The backs of Farrah’s fingers draw as softly as the most pristine Chinese silk down Honey’s tear-streaked flesh.  The poor girl nearly faints from that contact alone.

“The hand that took you from your perch, thrust you into the mire and drew you out, sweeping away who you once were to reveal what you were meant to be?  Not here.  Careers and responsibilities… yes, I could blame those, were I a weaker person.  But no.  I was wrong to not make more time to continue the task that is you.  It is not a mistake I will make again…”

“M-Mistress…”

Honey is stopped in her retort by the firm grip of Farrah, cupping her chin and bringing her gaze directly toward that of the woman sitting above her, figuratively and literally.  It does not hurt, yet it does command.  Farrah has learned as much as Honey in that pain is not always necessary.

“Time will be made.  Recompense will be meted out.  Tell your Mistress the truth, maid: is that not the missing piece?  Is that not what you have craved so fervently while stuffing such feelings down deep for fear of reprisal?”

“It… it is.  I… I’ve…”

Farrah says nothing.  Honey will come to the words on her own.  She simply… cannot do so and maintain what little self-control she still possesses in this woman’s presence!

“So… SO much!  You left a hole inside of me that nothing could fill!  Even with cane in hand you could do no more damage to me than you did simply by just existing as a dream!  You don’t KNOW how much I wanted to HATE you!”

By now Honey is clinging to Farrah’s hand with both of hers, drawing herself closer until she can hug that arm, burying her face against it as much, as hard, as she can.

“But the moment Lady Katalina told me you were coming back… it… it all went away!  Why?!  I shouldn’t feel like this, not toward you!  You… you broke me… and those… those missing pieces… all it took was one glance…”

Not moving from her spot, not even uncrossing her legs, Farrah watches as Honey breaks down her own walls and lets her feelings fly free.  The anger, the hate… the devotion and desire… and the realization of the end result.  She knows what she has become, what she is meant to be.  It cannot be processed so easily as the realization of it and, thus, more tears do come.  But Honey has that inkling now.  Where only darkness reigned, now there is a light.  There is a goal.  Something to move toward.  To become.

And she would do it with all her might, just to have what she holds in her hand now.

“It has finally sunk in, hasn’t it?”

Honey nods meekly.  Farrah, sitting back a little, faintly smiles.

“For me as well, maid.”

The golden-haired woman looks up at Farrah again, this time questioningly.  The Hellcat’s only response is that same faint smile.  She pushes gracefully up to her feet, slowly shrugging out of the jacket and neatly draping it over the back of her chair.  Her words to follow… chill Honey at her core, set her skin on fire and make every one of her fingers and toes tingle.

“Yet after all the progress I have been made aware of, I look to the thing at my feet and see an utter, disheveled mess.  Look at yourself!”

Her tone is one of amusement until the directive.  Honey snaps to attention in a hurry, holding so tightly to the proper posture that her body shakes from the muscular tension.  Farrah’s hand lowers again, gradually winding the summer-colored locks of the maid around her hand, gripping tight only at the end.

“Look at yourself…”

Comes Farrah’s whisper as she bends over at the waist, just enough to whisper in the maid’s ear.

“...you know what I must do with you.”

A pink bottom lip finds its way beneath white teeth, gnawed upon something fierce.  Is it anticipation?  Fear?  Desire?  All of the above?

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Rise.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Releasing her grip, Farrah takes a single step back as Honey gets to her feet as gracefully as she can.

“Turn.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Lift your hair.”

There is no response to this, not of the verbal variety.  Honey does as instructed, flinching only once when the cold steel touches the soft flesh of her neck.  It is a simple ring with a keyed lock.  No insignia, no adornments, not so much as an engraving.  Farrah locks the simple collar and lowers her hands.

“Turn.”

Honey does so, not daring to look Farrah in the eyes… not even as the Hellcat clips a lead to that ring, a chain of similar steel with an embroidered leather handle.  This she wraps about her wrist, turning the chain once about her own hand and giving a firm tug.

“Come.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

*  *  *

So strange is the world that is BDSM.  To most it looks painful and demeaning, restrictive of the body as well as the mind and spirit.  To others, it has no meaning beyond the erotic overtones made (in)famous by 50 Shades of Gray among other things.  Only to those in the lifestyle, however, are the true meanings clear.  The exchange of power, the devotion toward a way of being and living, the fulfillment that comes with no longer having to hide who and what you are from the world.  A place to belong.  A place where you are accepted.  Where what makes you who you are is celebrated and not ridiculed.  No greater example exists than what lies between Katalina Star and Zoey Madigan-Star, for they have mingled lifelong love with the tenets of the lifestyle to create an enduring beauty of being.

Farrah, of course, is unlike her friends.  Not only in the nature of her sexual orientation barring a few experimental evenings once upon a time, but in her ability to distance herself from… herself.  Confusing?  No more so to those watching and listening than to the woman herself.  She would never admit it, but Farrah loves every bit as powerfully as Zoey does.  Unlike her sweet counterpart, however, Farrah has learned the means of controlling her heart and mind.  Like a switch.  A motion of a finger and hot becomes cold, affection becomes wrath, love to hate.  She worries not for the chances of, shall we say, falling for Honey.  Her love for James overpowers all save perhaps for their family, blood and otherwise.  This was not an instant talent, however.  Nothing so potent could be.

The only question where it pertains to the summer-haired maid, now bereft of most of her uniform and standing in the middle of a small interior room elsewhere in the Dungeon, is of how to guide her.  Affection is necessary and Farrah will mete it out in the most delicate of manners.  Discipline, however, will always be paramount.  Guidance with a firm hand, sometimes bearing an implement of leather, bamboo or metal… sometimes with words… sometimes with a look or a touch.  Through this, Honey will know what she means to her Mistress.  She will have her meaning and understand her placement in the world.  And she will come to love it, not through the forces wielded by another but from her personal acceptance of what she wishes to be.

“Be still.  This is a delicate piece but not so delicate as your body, and only one of the two are replaceable.”

“Yssh, Msshtrss.”

It is the best response that could be hoped for, at least of the verbal variety.  Reflex is what led to it in the first place, for Farrah expected only a stillness of form as a reply.  The slight slurping noise that followed, however, made her smile inwardly.  She needed a moment to place just why that was.  A moment like that was too indulgent for the present.  The instrument of metal and leather that she had in hand now, that she focused so intensely upon, demanded all of her senses.  Honey tenses only once further, and is met with a backhanded slap across her left cheek, then her right.  A muffled squeal emits from behind the 2” ball wedged between her teeth, the motion of her lips around the intruder allowing a thin, clear line of drool to topple over her lip and into her bare cleavage, quickly disappearing beneath the tightly-laced corset.

“Still, I said.”

“Mmmph!”

Honey’s best efforts in this instance are far better, thankfully for her senses and her derriere.  She squeaks almost inaudibly when the smooth steel invader comes fully to rest between her nether lips, but that is her only unwarranted reaction.  As Farrah adjusts the straps and screws to create a tightness to her liking, she is as still as a glacier… if lava could flow within a giant hunk of prehistoric ice!

“Zoey was right; Claire is a master of her art.”

Her words full of satisfaction, Farrah remains where she is at that moment, knelt behind Honey’s stretched figure.  Hinged handcuffs enclose her slender wrists, her hands and fingers laced tightly into leather mitts.  Connected to her cuffs is a steel chain drawn upward via a simple pulley operated by a battery-powered remote in Farrah’s possession, Honey’s arms thusly drawn just a centimeter past her comfort zone above her.  The corset previously mentioned has been worn under her maid’s uniform, a half-cup piece that leaves her breasts exposed over top, a heartfelt request from Honey herself.  Beneath the uniform they were obviously not visible, but by her own admission the sensations of leather upon sensitive flesh was a true pleasure, one Katalina had seen fit to allow her.

Continuing down, past the chastity device locked into Honey at her Mistress’s hand, her long legs are spread via a steel bar clocking in at just beneath a meter in length.  Manacles comparable to those entrapping her wrists were locked to both ends as well as to her ankles.  The center of the bar had a lock as well, one linking it to an eyebolt screwed into the floor.  The sheer black stockings, held up by garters attached to the corset, offered little protection against the metal… yet they added such allure to Honey’s long, toned legs.  As a small mercy, her 4” stiletto heels had been removed, though being on her toes thanks to the nature of her restraints was demanding on its own.  As a matter of fact, to most eyes the young beauty looked positively tortured.

As previously stated, however, those who choose not to know can never understand.

“Do you still insist that you missed me, maid?”

Ah, she had worked herself back up to being called something instead of being ordered without identifier.  Lips strain to smile a little around the large gag.

“Mm-hmm!”

“Strung up by unforgiving metal, strained to your limits, invaded inescapably and making a pure mess of yourself....”

Farrah pauses briefly to trace a leather-gloved hand along Honey’s bottom lip, the material shiny now with the saliva drawn from there.  It is counter-productive; Farrah’s touch makes the poor maid drool even more.  But the Hellcat doesn’t seem to mind.

“...and knowing what is about to happen to you.”

Another moment to lean in.  Farrah is close enough that, had Honey range to do so, she might have touched her… might have nuzzled her cheek against that of the crimson-haired Angel.  But she cannot.  And it torments her so.

“Do you still insist that you missed me… Honey?”

Oh… oh, she said it.  Mistress said her name!  Her name!  Honey’s eyes squeezed shut as more tears fell, these of pure joy and naught else.

“MM-HMM!”

If there were ever any doubt as to whether the young woman was owned… that name shattered them utterly and completely.  If Farrah never uttered her name again, that she said it once when it truly matter to her, would make it, somehow, all right.  Satisfied by the response, Farrah walks past Honey to the small, round table in the back of the room.  She returns with a laced leather hood, the only holes within existing for the mouth and nostrils, as well as a simple band.  The mask is tucked into the waist of her skirt while she gathers Honey’s long hair and weaves it into a simple braid.

Over Honey’s head goes the hood, drawn into place so that the holes beneath fit into place at her nostrils, the larger hole in the center just wide enough to accommodate the gag.  No eye holes, no ear holes.  Farrah draws the laces tight, knotting them to her liking after arranging the braid to extend from a smaller hole in back of the mask.  To the tip of said braid Farrah binds a spare lace… and the purpose?  It is drawn to a small hook at the back of the chastity device and bound, drawing Honey’s head back just a little.  The maid offers a soft whimper but no struggle.

“You can rest assured that you earned this treatment.  You can also know beyond doubt that should I find pleasure in teaching you this day?  Well… let us leave that treat hanging just beyond your reach for you to wonder on, hm?”

“Mmmph… mm-hmm…”

“Good little maid.”

Unbeknownst to Honey, there is a second remote.  She might have had some inkling, but unseen usually equates to unknowing.  Farrah, picking up the credit-card shaped and sized implement, noted the nature and shape of the buttons upon it; the on/off switch, the red one emblazoned with a small flame, the blue one with the oddly-colored cube, the other with the wavering lines and the one resembling droplets of liquid.  Each, she found, connected to up and down keys as well as those facing left and right.  Tapping the one with lines, then the up key twice, Farrah watched and listened.  A buzz from between Honey’s legs at first, followed by a tense whimper, then a muffled cry of impassioned surprise as the buzz strengthened a bit.

Crop quickly in hand, Farrah walked silently around the wavering, trembling maid, watching her reactions from head to toe.  Her thumb moves between the left key and the right, learning the extent of the device’s manipulative abilities.  Honey, however, knows only strange, senseless bliss.  A snap of the crop’s business end across one firm nipple makes her squeak, but across its mate the effect is for her to flinch.  Both necessitate a gripping of the metallic device within her and coupled with that motion the maid feels inconsolable pleasure, referred to as such only due to the fact that it is the proverbial itch that cannot be scratched.

To tell more of this part of the tale… well, it would be redundant.  One’s imagination can tell the tale just fine without it having to be spelled out.  Two hours passed before any respite was offered to Honey, though from the sensations continually assailing her nerve endings through flesh inside and out, she might have begged for another hour if her body had not simply given out.  The moment she was no longer extended by steel, she fairly crumbled.  Farrah was right there, of course, unlocking each restraint in the proper order, ensuring that Honey would come down only as she desired.  Cuffs and mitts, bar and manacles, that wickedly-delicious chastity device, the hood… all set aside.  The gag was saved for last lest Honey’s exclamations at proper motion coming back disturb anyone else about.  It popped free from her mouth with a torrent of liquid and a fair ache in the maid’s jaw.  Kindly, while Honey slowly eased her jaw into proper working order, Farrah also loosened the corset a notch or two.  Honey looks up into the eyes of her Mistress, both of them perspiring from their efforts.

“Mistress…”

She’s simply too worn, too tired, to keep up protocol.  Knowing this much, Farrah sits comfortably on the floor, her legs to the side.  Honey, to her unimaginable satisfaction and gratitude, is allowed to drape herself across her Mistress’s thigh.  She curls up in a manner not unlike that of a child, hands gently rubbing along Farrah’s booted legs, her eyes half-open.  A soft coo emits when her Mistress drapes a simple blanket over her, adding another layer of comfort.  Honey smiles softly, finding herself toying with the laces of Farrah’s boots.  She turns, meekly, and looks up at her Mistress.  Silently grasping the unspoken question, Farrah gives a single nod.  Happily, like a child experimenting with a new toy, Honey slowly tugs the laces of both boots loose and slides her fingers into the opened space.  She cannot remove them from this position but… just to feel the warm skin of her Mistress through the soft nylon is pure joy.  A few minutes of such and Honey is actually asleep, breathing softly.

Months ago this would have struck Farrah as odd.  She would have expected trickery and disdain if Honey were allowed this close at all.  As Honey remembered transgressions in the past, so did Farrah at this point, hours later.  They had come quite far in the absence of one another.  And much further in mere hours.  It made the Hellcat chuckle softly to herself, shaking her head as she kept combing her fingers slowly through Honey’s sweaty yet still soft hair.

“I think I get it now, Zoey.  Not in the same way you do, but from my own perspective.  This is that joy you have with Kat… the satisfaction… the sense of accomplishment…”

She trails off a bit, not keen on talking to herself much.  But she knows what she knows.  She’ll have to make it a point to tell Zoey in person.  James, too, for there are no secrets between them.  Always having been a complicated creature, a part of her that increases almost daily, Farrah often had as much trouble ‘getting’ herself as anyone else.  To her children, she was Mama Red.  Small, furious in anger and love in equal measure and devoted to their happens.  To James, she was Spice.  That said it all.  To Zoey, she was… how did that dorky movie put it?  A hetero life-mate?  Yes, that made sense.  To most, though, she was a violent creature, impassioned and dangerous.  And she liked it that way.  One day, the world would see what she could really do, for only a fool would think that they had seen the best of Farrah Jessica Martell.  Soon… soon they would know.

Soon… but not now.  Now?  Honey needs her.  The guiding hand, sometimes painful and sometimes tender, always teaching, always correcting.  Understanding through every single facet.  The maid was not the only one learning, though.  And above all, one lesson outshined the rest:

Honey needed her Mistress.  And Farrah?

Farrah needed Honey, too.