The Entangled Web of Mistress Chase

Sensual Creative Goddess Equipped to Take You Out of Your Vanilla World and into MINE

Letters to Mistress Chase
Letters to Mistress Chase Letters to Mistress Chase

Stories for Mistress

Tell Me a story, slave


My Most Amazing Goddess:
by eager slave

I hope this finds you exactly where you belong, sitting on a regal throne with your piercing eyes, the slightest of actions captivating all those around you and with a smile on your face caused by the pained look in your victim's eyes. Or luxuriating on an overstuffed chaise lounge, servants and minions at your feet, worshipping you with their eyes and tongues, hoping that some part of you will have mercy on them and give them a touch of magic they so desire.

Or entering an ancient building down an old, forgotten lane, in out of a misty rain of a late autum London Friday, removing your worn but solid dark gray cloak, hunched over to hide your true stature from any passers by. You gently close the door and set the iron lock in place, slowly, almost a ceremony in itself. No key, but a complex combination that, once set, commits all present to the evening's events. The marble walls and floors shine cold in what little light sneaks over the thin transom, but, as always, for you, this place lights an inner fire. A perfect space, pristine, solid, and yet ancient. This place is a temple. Your temple, Built in your honor. As you move further in you shake out your hair and stretch your body to its full height, noticing the quiet sound of water in the fountain and the dim street noises fading away. Just before you pull back the curtain to the main space you smell two familiar and wonderful things -- incense scented lamp oil, and terror.

Ducking into the dark altar space, your second garment, a simple white ankle length dress, compliments your form and moves with you. You strike a match, light a taper, and start one slow orbit of the room. One by one, with quiet care, you light each of the six lamps in turn, three on each side of the formal marble octagon, with the archway in the back and the fronts piece providing a separate balance. Your focus falls only on the lamps, and the actions of this first step. The lamps sit just over two meters off the floor, so your taper must find a waiting wick and share its flame without you seeing it. All done by feeling. As you bring each one to life, you notice more of yourself in the light, your strong, lithe body, edges and curves, power, and all yours. The simple clothing remaining suggesting that all of the treasure is there but saying none is available.

You light the sixth lamp, extinguish the taper, and silently return to the place where you entered the room. Eyes closed, head down, your arms cross your chest in an x, and you feel yourself slipping through time. Statuesque and lost in thought, you feel the energy, power, light, dark, physical, emotion, everything flow through and around you, an electrical storm building in your mind and body, gathering it all, filling the stores beyond their limit. Through the months, the years, the centuries, the millennia, this moment of revealing, this pivot in the plan, this small intermission before the second act, always stands out to you as a time to be thankful.

You are thankful.

As has been the case since you entered the room, you hear sounds from the gift in the center. Your routinization of this process lets you block out just about all of that stimulus. Even now, though, some of the noise gets through. Over time it has subtly shifted, from prayers to a god that never answered, to curses at a devil you never were, to pleading, in any number of languages, for mercy, forgiveness, or understanding. None of them ever really got it. It's not about them. It's for them.

In your meditative pose, you listen in to give this one chance to express itself. But no. This one is no different

.

You take your time to start, focusing inward on the process, and locking your brain into place. Your mantra is simple: "You are mine." You have repeated it in your head and aloud for days, weeks and months and years.

You are mine.
You are mine.
You are mine.
You are mine.
You are mine.

You hear it inside you, louder, ramping up, turning and returning, your brain now screaming internally, filling your body until you are bursting with it and your mantra, as a whisper, starts to escape your lips.

You are mine.
You are mine.
You are mine.
You are mine.
You are mine.

Dozens, hundreds of times. Constant, slow-paced, assured. Eyes closed, head down, arms crossed, the mantra, a message equally to yourself and the gift, starts to fill the room. As your voice grows the gift's voice starts to shrink, eventually to nothing. When your voice has extinguished the gift's clamoring, you start to reduce volume and tempo, until you return to silence. In the quiet, all you hear is the imagined echo of your own voice, and the trembling of the gift.

A few beats later, you start. Three things first - they change the scene:

One: You slide the white garment off your shoulders. It drops to the floor below you, now essentially a pedestal. The last layer, ceremonial cloth, metal and leather strapping, fits like a glove to avoid any grabbing in the time to come.

Second, you slowly drop to one knee, placing your clasped hands atop it. Back straight, body angled, assuming and becoming the authority.

Third, you slowly raise your head, lick your lips, and open your eyes to see what the night holds in store. You smile, just a bit.

Disco.

The center of this temple is a colum, not an altar. Doric, set atop a round marble platform that, almost imperceptibly, is cupped in to the center, causing any liquid spilled on it to collect in the center, and drain through the tiny slits in the stone. It's classical in proportion. 75 centimeters wide at the base, and six times that (4.5 meters) tall. An iron bar shoots through it at one half meter's height, capped on either side with a hinged loop, old, iron, impervious to strenght or time. The platform has similar, smaller metal loops. Nothing else.

The design has changed over time, as wood, metal, plastic and other things wore out, broke, or just got too stained to be useful or sanitary. But this one works, and has worked for a while. This simple platform allows for a large variety of offerings to be made.

Tonight, the offering is a man.

You examine the man, chest strapped to the column, hands chained and locked to the low iron loops, dressed in street clothes, still wet. Fresh game apparently.

You make him to be a little just over 1.8 meters, so good height, rounded, somewhat muscular shoulders, clean shaven, dark wavy hair, about 90 kg or so, depending on his torso length.

Every gesture or twitch ripples through the room as you rise up to examine and stalk your prey. Your victim's heartbeat doubles, then doubles again, anticipating, seeing, feeling the sunburst of your beauty and watching raw power flow through you like a caged grizzly bear. As you circle him, he freezes, immobilized by the fear and the anticipation of the next few second. The last thing you see is the smallest bead of sweat sliding off his the edge of his twitching eyebrow, one more sign that his condition has consumed him. He does not know it yet, but even now, he belong to you. Completely. Your prey, your victim, your toy, plaything, your lunch.

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