The Mistress

By Aksinia Astakhov

Part 1: Hubris

My name is Alessandra, and I’m a gold-digging bitch. At least that’s what She called me, just before she realised she was unable to stop us, and we gagged her with a black ball-gag, nice and tight, I saw to that myself. He grabbed her arms and I cuffed her wrists, then we walked her to the kitchen, that big modern kitchen with the shiny black granite worktops, the gadgets that she never used, the table where he and I made out last night, on the night when we made our plans; well, really I made the plans and he agreed, in between shouting out in pleasure as I drove him wild and sucked him dry.

Another set of cuffs, and her hands were secured to the back of the chair. Couple of scarves round the ankles and she was our prisoner. Earlier, on a whim I had grabbed some of his ties from his wardrobe, and as she sat there pointlessly struggling, I lashed these around her legs to the chair. I loved the idea of being in control of her, I had won in more ways than one and I wanted to enjoy my triumph. She had been the powerful one, rich, glamorous, moved in the highest social circles, but as I tightened the strap of the ball gag over her immaculately coiffed blonde hair, not caring if it hurt her, I knew I was the winner.

But it’s true really, I did want him for his money, he was very rich, but it was not just that. There were other, well, physical benefits. I was his PA (“just a bloody typist” she said), he was a big-shot director, travelled all over the country, sometimes to Europe, and I got to go with him.  I’m half Italian, and one of the first things he said to me after I started working there was that dark haired Italian women turned him on. He made some joke about Sophia Loren films being porn to him, but I could tell there was something between us. On Valentine’s Day he bought me a dozen dark red roses, had them delivered to the office, with a card saying “From an admirer” but I knew it was him because of the oh-so-unsubtle hints he was giving. Picking one of the long stems out, I went into his office, closed the door and went to stand behind him as he sat in his chair. He turned and caught himself on the sharp thorns of the rose. I feigned horror but it was, like so much of my relationship with him, a ploy, just to get close. I took his hand and wiped it with a tissue, and well, that night he cancelled his romantic dinner with his wife, claiming business commitments, and we made love in the Hilton.

Tiffany, his wife, was attractive I suppose, a little like Kathleen Turner in her early films, but the spark had gone. They had no children, a deliberate decision he said, but maybe she wanted some, and that was their problem. I’m no psychologist. She was history now, they both just needed convincing of it.

He’d stayed at my flat two nights ago. She was away, so I moved in to his place last night. I brought the cuffs along and we had a great time with them, he enjoyed the role reversal in the bedroom, and I knew a few tricks to keep a man in his place. I just needed to yank his chain and I got his full attention.

In the morning he watched me from the bed as I came back from the shower, hair in a towel. I performed for him, showing him all the sensual delights of feminine beauty: the seamed stockings and the suspender belt, the brassiere, even the tummy cincher became an instrument of pleasure. I dried my hair with her hairdryer, sitting at her boudoir table, and used her cosmetics, which I had to concede were good brands, expensive ones. After a long time preening, I finally fluffed my hair with my hands and gave it a spritz of hairspray, then plenty of my own Dior perfume, after all he wouldn’t appreciate me smelling like her. And it didn’t matter now if my scent lingered after I’d gone.

I put on my silver-grey silk blouse that I’d hung on the wardrobe door the night before – never mind the wild night of passion; I don’t like creases – and then the black pencil skirt, and finally the black patent leather court shoes with the diamante heels.

We had coffee in the kitchen, but then She came back. We heard the car in the drive so I went into the lounge to hide, and as I heard them set to arguing I knew it was time to act. I grabbed the cuffs and the ties, and a couple of silk scarves I’d found, and slowly walked in, my heels clicking loudly on the stone floor of the kitchen. She looked shocked but only for a brief moment, after which she got angry and started shouting abuse at me. We both pounced on her, and we had the advantage of surprise. Once she was secure in the chair, I grabbed hold of him. I was turned on, I’ve always loved bondage games since I was a kid, and now the power-play just added to the frisson. He could sense the electricity between us and we kissed passionately, while she looked on.

I turned so my back was towards him and he pulled me close. As he buried his face in my hair, breathing hot and hard on my neck, I turned to look at her, tied to the chair, unable to do anything about what was happening in front of her. She was gagged but she made no sound anyway, she just stared at us, then, catching my eyes, looked away. I laughed out loud, and he stopped, turned to look at her too, grunted, and went back to nuzzling me.

His hands roamed over my breasts, squeezing, teasing, then they began to undo the buttons of my blouse. I felt my desire mounting, heat racing round my body, my face flushing. Oh the joy of it, complete victory, making love to him while she watched, helpless; the trophy wife, defeated, her own prize snatched away from her in broad daylight, and nothing she could do. Her face was flushed, embarrassed I hoped. She was angry, that much I could tell, but it soon gave way to resignation.

Now his hands slid under the blouse and moved to my back. He released the bra catch, then reached round the front again and continued where he’d left off, this time no material to get in the way. I reached behind me and grabbed his belt, pulling him in closer again.

“What shall we do with her?” he said, only for effect as we’d already planned what we were going to do, and the answer was nothing much really, just make her feel intimidated, explain that he wanted a divorce and then get her agreement to walk away without a penny. He said he’d tried reasoning with her but it was no use and something stronger was needed in the way of persuasion.

I tried to compose a speech, which was difficult with his fingers squeezing my nipples. In between moans of delight, I managed: “I think we should take her with us to somewhere remote, rent a country cottage maybe, then spend the weekend sexually pleasuring her so she orgasms constantly for hours. What exquisite torture. Do you think she remembers what an orgasm feels like?” He grunted in reply. He did a lot of that, grunting, I think he thought he was in charge so it would be sufficient. I would see to that in due course.

We weren’t psychos; all we wanted, all I wanted, was to get him to myself, and she could go off and have a life of her own. Their marriage was over long before I got involved, all I did was tip him over the edge, in more ways than one. She stared at me then, and as I looked at the mix of fear and loathing in her eyes, I felt a small wave of pity come over me.  But I soon recovered.

A few more minutes with lover boy then I had to get him off me and focus on the task in hand. I did up my bra and blouse, although my nipples were still swollen and tender after the attention he’d given them, and I went to stand over her. “He just wants a divorce” I said loudly, hands on hips, then trying to be less aggressive, “look, just agree to our financial proposals and everything will be fine”.

Tiffany shook her head, no longer resigned it seemed, and tried to scream abuse at me, which was futile given the big shiny drool-covered rubber ball in her mouth. This unnerved me a bit so I reacted. “Cow”, I said. “Come on, let’s leave her to stew. You’ll be hearing from the lawyers”. I couldn’t read the expression on his face – confused, amused? Anyway he obediently followed my lead, so I patted him affectionately on the behind as we went.

We left the handcuff keys on the kitchen table, the maid was due in half an hour so she’d let her go. I felt like our plan had failed but I put a brave face on it and flounced out as best I could; I was good at that.



Back to What’s New