Catherine's Girl

"I'm watching you in the mirror," she taunted. "Are you afraid of me?"

Our eyes met in the mirror. "I am in total awe in the presence of a Goddess."

"We understand each other," she smirked. "I shall beat you mercilessly. Understood?"

"As you command."

"But if you misbehave, I shall have to punish you." She backed up, nestling her rump against my cock. "Shall I whip you or punish you?"

"I'm your whipping boy!" My response surprised even me, but Catherine the Great made the bizarre seem normal.

She rewarded me by wiggling her ass against my cock, bending over at the waist to press her warm derriere tightly against me, and her semi-softness, despite the girdle, coaxed me into shooting off. She kept full contact while swiveling her hips, goading me into releasing jets of cum into my pants.

"Need help, little Princess?" Her condescension vacuumed more juice from me. Facing me, she took my head into her arms and pressed my face into her bosom. She knew how completely her breasts and vagina, safely sequestered from my direct touch, enticed and frustrated me. Arching her back, she rubbed her dazzlingly-packaged pussy against my crotch to create enough friction to drain me completely.

While my body jerked in pathetic, erratic spasms, Mrs. Roman indulged herself in a rich, earthy laugh at my expense, underscoring her superiority and my helplessness, oddly spurring me into deeper erotic desire for her—though I had no more to give her.

I knelt and kissed her feet again.

She figuratively crushed me under her heel when she admonished me, "Princess! You've made a mess."

Her entrapment—luring me into cumming in my pants and blaming me for it—tightened her psychological vise on me. Rapture engulfed me. I walked on my knees behind her and pressed my lips into the slick, black curtain over her girdled ass.

"Good girl!" she crowed. If I intended to resist her, she'd already defeated me. "Later, when my royal ass is completely bare, you can kiss it properly. For now, hand me your clothes, and I'll have Martha—I mean, Martin—clean them. Give me everything. No tired jokes about taking you to the cleaners. We both know I'll do that later."