Taken by Miss Strokewell

Elizabeth Strokewell is a dominatrix who specialises in dominating older gentleman. She has a story here on Literotica (https://www.literotica.com/s/dental-nurse). The personality that comes across in her story is vivid and amusing, and I started wondering how a chance encounter between her and a less experienced gentleman might turn out. The following story appears with her permission.

My apologies to Australian readers if I have used the word 'spoonta' unconvincingly.

*****

Crack!

After a busy day in the city, Henry was on the balcony of his hotel room, enjoying the breeze that had sprung up with the approach of evening. He leaned on the parapet of the balcony and admired the view, which was a shorthand for Sydney: the view across to the harbour bridge and the Opera House.

The crack seemed to have come from the neighbouring room on his left. He guessed that something made of plastic had snapped.

Henry had seen his neighbour that morning as he went to breakfast. At first she had just been a tall, shapely silhouette against the bright window at the end of the corridor. Then, as they passed each other, there had been a glimpse of blue-green eyes turned towards him. He would have liked to know her.

His balcony was separated from hers by a head-high wall. A few moments after the crack he heard her voice from beyond it.

'Snapped! So what's a girl to do?' she muttered.

To Henry, a well-spoken Englishman of an older generation, her Australian intonation was very engaging. His heart began to race. He hadn't felt like this for years. Did he dare to speak to her?

No, he didn't. But he moved the glass-and-stainless-steel table that stood on the balcony, so that it made a scraping noise. At least she would know he was there, and perhaps she would take the initiative. He knew that was a ridiculous hope, but -

'Any idea how to fix a six-inch heel, pet?'

Was she really addressing him?

'Hello? Gentleman on the balcony?'

Henry leaned out over the balcony and looked to the left, and found himself transfixed by those blue-green eyes. Below them was a mouth with full, soft lips and something mischievous in the set of it. He cleared his throat. 'One might have a bash. Just let me get something from my suitcase.'

A minute later he was in her room. There was nothing unexpected about the room itself. It was as spacious and tastefully furnished as his own - yet he felt he had stepped into another world.

She was dressed largely in black leather, with black buckles here and there. Her neckline showed a truly gorgeous cleavage. And she was holding a long, laced, black leather boot in her left hand and its snapped-off heel in the right.

Henry croaked 'Hello', cleared his throat, and said 'Hello' again. He was by no means short, but she was taller than him, even in her bare feet.

He said, 'I always travel with some epoxy resin. Araldite, you know? Never know when it might come in handy. My name's Henry.'

'My name is Miss Elizabeth Strokewell.' She raised one eyebrow, smiled slightly - and Henry blushed like a schoolboy.

Against the wall, under a large mirror, was another glass-and-stainless-steel table. While Henry sat at the table repairing the heel, he was distracted by the reflection of Miss Strokewell standing looking coolly at him. Her legs were long and lightly tanned. And then he noticed something lying on the bed: two short, broad leather straps of heavy, natural-coloured hide, furnished with buckles and joined with a few stout links of chain. He could only imagine they were cuffs of some sort. He forced himself to focus on glueing the heel.

When he had finished, he turned on his chair to face Miss Strokewell. 'Er...' His eyes were drawn to where the cuffs had been, but they had vanished. 'Er, it's quick-setting, but best to let it cure for an hour at least.'

Miss Strokewell moved nearer, till she was looking down into his face with her heavy breasts jutting over him. 'I'm so relieved that you managed to fix my broken work boot, pet. I'll need it tomorrow. I'd have had to postpone a couple of appointments without it, and I do have to keep busy or I can't keep up the style my gentlemen expect.'

'I see... Ah - work boot?'

'I've been working from this room while the dungeon is redecorated.'

After a moment Henry realised that his mouth was hanging open. He closed it.

'The dungeon walls are going to be very deep purple this time,' she continued. 'Black walls are a bit of a cliché, you know?'

'Ah. Yes. Terrible cliché.' He gulped. 'Dungeon?'

'I wonder how I can show my gratitude, pet.' She looked down at Henry's trousers, and a small smile spread across her lips. But she frowned in mock-anger as she said, 'What's this? An erection? Oh dear. Did you think I wouldn't notice? I'm an expert erection-spotter, you know. Anyway, who could miss a thing that size?'

'Oh... Well, I mean...'

'No, no. Look me in the eye, pet.' She put one hand under his chin and forced him to look up into her face. 'I think I'm dealing with a naughty boy. Well pet, was it my beautiful cleavage gave you that lovely big hard-on, or was it these?' And with that, she brought her other hand from behind her back. She was holding the leather cuffs.

Miss Strokewell was the sort of woman who could make a turnip look sexy just by holding it, so perhaps it was not surprising that the sight of the cuffs sent a mysterious thrill through Henry's cock and balls. His mouth was dry, but he managed to say, 'B - both.'

'I thought so, pet.' She pressed the stiff leather to his lips for an instant. Without a thought, he kissed it. 'I'm an expert disciplinarian with these.'

The word 'disciplinarian' seemed to impress Henry, because he breathed out a soft 'oh'.

'I've taken a shine to you, pet, and I'm going to show you how grateful I am. There's a wealthy gentleman I'm entertaining tomorrow who is a very free spender - quite the financial crisis without him - as long as I give him what he needs. And one of the things he needs is to be greeted by a dominatrix wearing high-heeled lace-up boots. That broken heel could've been a little bit of a catastrophe.'

At the word 'dominatrix' Henry breathed another 'oh', but all he said aloud was, 'I forgot to say, don't walk too far on that heel. It's not like a professional repair.'

Miss Strokewell smiled. 'You really are very sweet, pet. Don't worry. The first thing I make him do is unlace my boots, take them off, and wank into one of them. Then I tell him he's a mucky boy and whip his arse to make him lick it all up. He loves it! He's ready to cum again in no time.' She pressed the cuff under Henry's chin and studied his face. 'But I don't think that's exactly the treatment for you. You know, the other girls all say I must be psychic! I always seem to know just how to bring out a man's subby side and give him the biggest subby thrills. Let's see now...'

Henry felt a strange quiver through his genitals at these words. He looked up into her face. Her sensuous lips were pursed as she considered his 'treatment'.

'Hmm. You blushed when I looked at you in a certain way,' she mused. 'So I'm guessing a little bit of humiliation. And I also reckon from the way you speak, you went to boarding school...' She tossed the cuffs back onto the bed. 'I've been cooped up in here all day. I'm going for a stroll while I've got the chance. But in one hour exactly you're to come and tap on the door of Headmistress Strokewell's study for some free tuition. Understand?'

Henry nodded, and swallowed.

'Run along now, pet.'

Back in his room he set the timer on his phone, feeling that he should obey Miss Strokewell precisely. He had been nervously pacing up and down for ten minutes when he heard Miss Strokewell's voice from the corridor, followed by a woman's voice with an accent he couldn't identify. He listened at the door.

'I'm sorry, Gretna pet, I don't have my diary on me and I'm just off out. Are you off home now?'

'No, Mrs Elizabeth, I am within the hotel for some time longer.'

Their voices were getting further away. Henry heard something about cleaning, but could make out nothing more.

The sun was setting when Henry checked his phone and saw that there were five minutes left. He was still pacing his room, though by now he was freshly showered and shaved, and had even trimmed his pubic hair, because he had an idea that that was what people did these days. Suddenly a thought occurred to him - he knew that he was already perfectly clean, but for ultimate hygiene he should perhaps use the bidet. He aimed to impress the beautiful Miss Strokewell with an air of decadent assurance, and being totally prepared might calm him.

The result was that when the timer on his phone sounded he was crouched over the bidet with his trousers round his ankles, carefully drying his anus with toilet paper. Frantically he threw the damp paper in the toilet and pulled his trousers up. (His trousers were grey, and he had put on a white shirt and black shoes - as near to school uniform as he could manage). But when he had zipped his fly, he found himself unable to stand fully upright: there was a mysterious tension in his shirtfront. A hurried investigation showed that one corner of the hem of his shirt had poked itself through the fly. It was, inexplicably, meshed into the zip - something which had never happened before in his entire life. Still, after a struggle and a small rip in the shirt, he was free, and heading towards the corridor.

In the corridor he paused to take several slow breaths in an unsuccessful effort to steady his nerves. By now he was four minutes late. He wondered whether Miss Strokewell would punish him for lateness. Or did a dominatrix punish by withholding punishment?

He tapped cautiously on Miss Strokewell's door, and almost jumped when she said at once, 'Headmistress Strokewell will see you.'

The glass table had been moved into the sitting area beyond the bed. On it stood an upright desk lamp, and she was sitting in the pool of light cast by the lamp. The curtains behind her were closed. Her hair was gathered into a severe French pleat, she wore a dusky lavender-grey academic gown and her elegant legs were set off by sheer purple stockings and red patent-leather shoes. But at first Henry only saw her dark turquoise eyes and their look of tantalising strictness.

She surveyed him over severe glasses pulled half-way down her nose. 'Well, Henry. I hear you've been a bad boy. Come and stand in front of me.'

'Yes, Miss Strokewell,' said Henry, and naturally did as he was told.

He gave a start as he noticed a long, black, leather-wrapped cane lying across the tabletop. Miss Strokewell looked coolly into Henry's eyes as she picked it up and caressed its length with one hand. 'I keep this on my desk as a symbol of authority. Australia is a modern country, boy, and you will be relieved to hear that the use of the cane is no longer permitted in schools. Unfortunately for you, however, this only means that I have been forced to devise other forms of discipline which I enjoy inflicting even more.'

Henry was surprised by the way these words made his penis stand to attention.

'I see you're hanging your head in shame, boy. Well you might. What have you got to say for yourself?'

Was this the time to apologise for his lateness? He glanced at Miss Strokewell's face, saw her tongue tease her lips as she enjoyed his embarrassment, and realised that he need say nothing.

All the same, Miss Strokewell slapped the tabletop with the cane and said, 'I expect answers to my questions, boy. It appears I must remind you of your place. Kneel down.' Henry knelt. 'No, look at me, you repulsive boy.' She held out the cane so that the tip was level with his chin. 'Kiss the cane.'

As he obeyed, Henry's body was infused with a strange, delicious thrill - an exquisite sense of abasement.

'Are you grateful, boy?'

'Yes, Miss Strokewell. Thank you.'

'Do you even know why you're here, boy? Well, it seems I will have to tell you. Your housemistress informs me that when the cleaning staff change the bedclothes in your dormitory they always find your sheets absolutely stiff with dried-on fluid from your - this is most distasteful,' she smacked her lips as if savouring her words, '- from your copious sexual ejaculations. A small amount could be overlooked. A healthy sixth-form boy naturally produces a large quantity of - not to put too fine a point on it - male fluid, and sometimes the pressure must be relieved. But she says that you, you filthy boy, are absolutely phenomenal. The laundry is charging extra! She says that you must be deliberately producing it night and morning, seven days a week, and failing to use the tissues the school provides for the purpose of containing it. What do you say to that, you depraved young semen-squirter?'

'I - I'm sorry, Miss. It's the tissues - I run out...'

'From now on you will call me Headmistress. Every time you address me you will use that word. I will tell the cleaners to supply extra tissues. Now stand up.'

Henry stood.

Miss Strokewell looked him up and down. 'What's this?' She reached out with the cane to give a sideways tap to the bulging front of Henry's trousers. 'Tell me what it is, boy.'

Henry mumbled, 'My - my penis, Headmistress.'

'That's right, it's your penis. I suspected you might be a wicked young spermbucket, but still I can hardly believe my eyes. You dare to have an erection in front of your headmistress!'

'I - I'm sorry, Headmistress.'

'So you shall be. What has caused this shocking state of affairs?'

'You, Headmistress.'

'Me! How dare you accuse me of all people of causing this - this... obscenity!' She placed the tip of the cane between Henry's legs and slowly drew it upwards, across his balls and on up the full length of his straining cock. She looked into his flushed and panting face. 'Rock hard, too! Disgraceful! What have you got to say for yourself?'

'Please, Headmistress, please do that again.'

'Do it again! And make you spurt in your underpants, you disgusting spoonta-fountain! I will do no such thing.' As she spoke the tip of the cane was caressing the head of Henry's penis. 'So why do you have the nerve to blame me for this?'

'Headmistress, ever since I set eyes on you, you've made me want to - to...'

'Speak up, revolting boy.'

'To do things like...'

'Yes?'

'Play with your breasts, Headmistress - I think they're wonderful, and... and...' Henry's words faltered through shame. He marvelled at the way he could experience shame so intensely, yet enjoy it, because it was a fiction created by an intoxicatingly attractive woman.

Miss Strokewell acknowledged the compliment with a twitch of her lips, then resumed her sternness to say, 'Play with these?' And after putting the cane down on the table, she slowly undid the top four buttons of her blouse, which sprang open to reveal a long valley of creamy-white cleavage, framed and set off by the cold white of the blouse and the dark lavender-grey academic gown. 'These?' she repeated, putting her hands under her breasts and pressing them up until the top of a purple suede bra came into view.

'Yes, Headmistress,' gasped Henry the inexperienced, lustful sixth-former, his eyes popping.

'You impertinent boy!'

'I... I can't help it, Headmistress.'

Miss Strokewell stood up. 'The punishment, my young gusher of goolie-goo, is going to fit the crime.' Her luscious lips widened in a cruel smile. 'Undo your shirt, boy.'

With trembling fingers, Henry began to unbutton his shirt.

'Pull it open. Show me your chest.' Henry tugged the shirt open, exposing a flat, well-muscled torso (for a man of his age). 'I suppose, disgusting boy, when you're rubbing that spurter of yours, you like to think about playing with my nipples?'

'I... I know that is wrong of me, Headmistress Strokewell, but I - I...' His voice died away in a mumble of humiliation.

Miss Strokewell picked up the cane and ran the curved handle of it across first one of Henry' nipples, then the other. They hardened under the touch. 'Oh look,' she said, 'the wicked little knob-polisher has sensitive nipples, just like a girl. Pretty pathetic nipples compared to a real woman's though. Have you ever seen a real grown-up woman's nipples, boy? Live and in the flesh?'

'No, Headmistress.'

'That's a gap in your education, don't you think?' Miss Strokewell ceased teasing his nipples with the cane and put it back on the tabletop. Then she unbuttoned her blouse, exposing the whole of the purple suede bra. The voluminous cups were joined by a cross of lacing at the front, tied in a bow. Slowly she pulled at the loose ends of the bow. When the bow was untied the cups sprang apart. She pulled out the lace until the cups fell, and with a little help from her hands revealed the most magnificent pair of breasts Henry had encountered in his long life. He gulped again, and stared, hypnotised.

'What do you think, boy?'

Henry's mouth was dry with panting. 'They're - they're beautiful, Headmistress. Just - wonderful.'

'And frustrating for you to look at, boy. Aren't they?' Henry nodded, too riveted to speak. 'Do you want to touch them?'

'Oh. Yes please, Headmistress. May I?'

'You silly boy!' she sneered. 'Did you really think I'd let you touch my breasts? I only let real men touch them. You're getting ideas above your station, my young spunk-pumper. No, I'm showing you these to teach you self-control.' She looked sternly into his eyes. 'You'd like to play with my nipples, boy, wouldn't you? Like this.' Miss Strokewell squeezed both nipples between her fingers and thumbs, and when they had swelled into hardness began to tug and roll them. They were a beautiful deep pink-brown. 'Wouldn't you?'

'Yes, headmistress.' There was desperation in his breath.

'But you're not going to. What you're going to do is, you're going to do what I'm doing, but to your own nipples. Understand?'

'Yes, Headmistress.'

'Do it now.'

Of course, Henry did as he was told.

'Just look at the filthy boy!' Miss Strokewell exclaimed. 'He's getting even more turned on, if possible. Just like a girl would! Looks like he's not so manly as he thinks he is.'

A delicious sense of shame and humiliation tingled through Henry's body.

'Hmph,' she went on. 'It doesn't take much with a pathetic virgin like him. Before I'm done, he'll be so turned-on I can get a shower of cum out of him just by breathing on his silly virgin dick.'

After half a minute Miss Strokewell took up the cane and gave the backs of his hands a smart tap each. 'Stop that now. I think you're getting a little bit too much pleasure, you nipple-wanker. Put your hands behind your back. That's right. Now, remember my motto? The punishment should fit the crime.'

One of the bedside cabinets stood beside her chair. She bent and opened its door. The light from the desk-lamp did not shine into it: her hands disappeared into shadow as she picked up some small items which clinked slightly. 'Shoulders back, boy. Stick those nipples out for your Headmistress. Do you know what this is?' She held up something small, made of black metal.

Henry had heard of such things, but his naive sixth-form self said in a wondering tone, 'No, Headmistress.'

'This, boy, is a nipple clamp. And it goes on like this.' With that, she reached across the table and began to tighten it onto Henry's left nipple. As she did so she leaned her head towards his ear and whispered, 'Is this all right, pet? I'm not being too fierce? When I'm dominating on an amateur basis I do like to indulge myself, but I'm guessing you're new to all this and I know it can seem just a little bit scary.'

'Do please yourself,' Henry murmured back. 'Please.'

Miss Strokewell flashed a brief grin at Henry and then began to fasten the other clamp on his right nipple.