No one like you -CandyXAlan

[Candy_demon21]

'There's no one like you
I can't wait for the nights with you
I imagine the things we'll do'​

'What would you do to me?' It was that very questions that was challenging to answer. One would think that someone with such an over active imagination would be able to conjure up a simple sentence of, "I would do..." and then continue on from there, but it was always the same with this damned question that got her so tongue tied.
That was about the time the sub would stand up from their seat nice and slowly, take a long and calculating breath; often times thinking of just how to insult her lack of dominance and then storm off as if they this tiny little girl had just offended not only them but also their mother and dead aunt.

To put it simply it was mortifying, in every aspect of the word. Yet every weekend, Moira would return in her ridiculous, and incredibly uncomfortable dominatrix getup and try again.
Call it persistant or foolish, but the fiery haired woman had something to show the world. What exactly was that?
That she too could be like the men and woman in this club, the ones that walked with a snobbish air, the kind that commanded respect from the weak.

'I have to be like those woman in my books,' she would think bitterly, sizing herself up pathetically. 'You have all the makings of one of those woman, so why aren't you?' Another question in the logs in her mind that she could file under 'unanswered.'
Moira knew why she wasn't like those beautiful heroins in her smut novels, in fact it was quite simple. She did not ooze dominance. How could she was more so the question than why.
She was imperfect, in every form of the world, she was the epitome of it, and that frankness she would deny a hundred times and a hundred times more. Sadly, she knew it, even if it was denied and others knew it too.
How were they able to tell? This question she could easily answer all on her own; the way she carried herself or the small movements she often made when she was nervous.
Exhibit A, she thought coldly, catching a glimpse of herself in one of the floor length mirrors that were randomly placed around the club, that wild mane she called hair. The fiery red locks that hung just above her shoulder blades was the first indication.

Like most of the doms in the club, their hair was either pitch black, straight, or they had no hair. But she was like the red headed step child, almost literally in this aspect.
Her hair was the polar opposite of what the others had, it was red, it was curly and it simply did not listen to a brush or any form of product known to man. It had occurred to Moira that perhaps, she should dye the locks that she hated so much to look like the others.
This idea was quickly brushed aside, her hair would grow out, and the different between the seductive black and the eye popping red would be a obvious as day and night.

Why not cut it off? Another answer.

Because she could not imagine herself brave enough to cut the locks completely off. She would look like an albino hippy, with a large fluffy Afro. If her appearance now caused her to be self conscious, the latter would cause her to hide in her small flat for the remainder of her life, if at the very least hide until the unruly locks grew out to a manageable, aka, pony-tail length.

This was just the start of her imperfections however, the list seemed to grow everyday, making that 'beautiful seductress' even more unachievable. The her hope and optimistic feelings were flickering slowly out like that of the fading candle light.
Yet she stayed and subjected herself night after night by her 'peers'. Their words were what stung the most, and Moira would always leave feeling defeated, admiring the beautiful piercings that many of her dom 'friends' had. Oh to own a pair of nipple rings she would think longingly after she dressed down to a simple pair of shorts and a over sized T, oh what it would be like to have pair of nipple rings or if only I was allowed to have my navel pierced. To her these were just a pipe dream that would never be fulfilled.

"Still no sub hm Moira?" A slender woman stood leaning on one leg, clad in leather, must like she was. The fiery red head gave quick nod of acknowledgment before she turned her gaze away, her cheeks already painted red with an embarrassed blush.
"Aw, look pet, Moira is blushing. You think that's cute don't you?" The woman cooed almost kindly to the man who stood next to her, clad in nothing bit a pair of tight fitting white washed jeans. They hugged every toned curve of his well defined lower half, which made the crimson stain that much brighter.

"Yes Mistress, it is cute. So cute I could eat her up." In that moment, gold orbs shot to the dom and her pet in a sort of unspoken plea. To Moira, this meant a man touching her sex. She had had someone touch it before but...never before in public. "I-well...I-"the poor excuse for a dominatrix stammered out dumbly, feeling her tongue twist and fold into an impossible knot.
The sound that had brought the woman reeling back to reality was the harsh 'SNAP' of something biting into skin.
"Oh you naughty boy,"the woman growled through clenched teeth, a riding crop having suddenly materialized out of thin air, "Moira doesn't want to be touched." The dom fell silent, her icy gaze now locked on Moira, "Do you?"

It took the poor damsel a moment to respond with a slow shake of her head. The dom snickered beneath her breath, giving a shake of her own head, more so that meant 'Pathetic little woman. Spineless thing.' Or at least that was what the red head was thinking about herself.

So many times had Moira wanted to throw herself at one of the male doms in the room, to simply say that she could no longer pretend to be something that she was not, yet not once had she had the courage to tell anyone the truth about who she was before she become the increasingly more pathetic dom sitting silently by herself in a huge booth.

When the conversation eased to a dismal silence, the dom and her pet left casually, as if the conversation had not just transpired. Add another lash to the ones I've already got, Moira thought numbly, her honey colored eyes locked on the door, praying for a miracle, if one even existed.

 

[Alan23]

Every action, say certain philosophers, is connected to every other action. Some actions, however, are more obviously conencted than others.

Lucas Thorn Fenwick leaned upon the balustrade of the club, and watched as Mistress Chenee sashayed by. Had he paused to consider, he may well have affirmed the truth of the philosophical truism. Mistress Chenee was trailed, at the usual respectful distance, by Gori, her submissive, and the wriggle of the domme's slim hips as she passed, coupled with the bright smile and appreciative look with which she favored him were directly, and causally coupled with the look of hate Gori directed at him. Impotent hate, yet paradoxically, also smug, for both submissive knew that Lucas could have taken Gori apart without raising a sweat, yet they also both knew that tonight, and many nights and days in the future, it would be Gori and not Lucas that enjoyed her exotic favors, the blood-soaked ecstasy that bonded Mistress and slave. Lucas got the smiles, but Gori got the love.

Lucas watched as the domme and her sycophantic shadow vanished across the polished wooded floor of the club, and lit a cigar. The way in which Mistress Chenee's various piercings twinkled in the sconced candelabra that lit the premises almost tempted him to follow, to beg the woman's favors, and risk Gori's enmity. But he knew that etiquette, while not exactly forbidding one submissive to encroach upon another's territory, nonetheless did not look especially favorably on it. If he would learn to truly appreciate his own capacity for submission, this was a rule he need force himself to heed.

He did, however, while puffing reflectively upon the cigar, give pause to consider just what it was that was causing such a look of satisfaction upon Mistress Chenee's fine, patrician features. Surely not Gori's loving - pretty as he looked, he doubted Gori was that much of a lover. He didn't have enough imagination, for a start. And Chenee's look was not so much that of a cat that had stolen the cream as one who had trashed the shit out of another feline. A look of triumph rather than satisfaction.

He changed the direction of his gaze, backtracking the path she had taken, and immediately a possible answer for her look of satisfaction met his gaze. True, the evidence was merely circumstantial, yet, he conceded, strongly so. He spied Mistress Moira, standing forlornly alone, biting her lip, her face a bright scarlet, and obviously trying so hard to look unconcerned that she was drawing attention to some recent humiliation as much as if she'd worn a sign saying "kick me." Obviously, then, some insult had passed from the confident blond to the far-from-confident redhead, and the latter had, as was inevitably the case, been unable to reply.

It was, he concluded, an irony in the extreme. He, Lucas, was no natural submissive, and was acting so for a purpose. Whereas poor Moira Jamison, though she dressed as a Domme and official held the status, was anything but. The fact that she was physically too frail to beat any of the other Dommes in a fight could be overlooked, as could her obvious shyness and lack of self-faith. Other women had dominated with far greater handicaps. No, it went further. Something deep in her psyche. Domme Moira just did not have the presence, the chutzpah, the nameless "what it takes" to live up to her title. Thus, she had been unable to attract a submissive follower, despite her seniority at the club. Even the submissives, though they outwardly paid her the formal respect her position demanded, nonetheless made their dutiful obedience with a subtle casualness, making it obvious they despised and pitied her. And in such a way that everyone around, including Moira herself, could not fail to notice.

Lucas had not, perhaps, had the easiest of lives, yet his sense of empathy had survived. Knowing the value of a kind word, particularly from an unexpected source, determined his action.

He approached her, remembering to change from his usual confident stride to a slightly hesitant approach, as was the correct form for a submissive approaching a domme. He knelt on one knee before her (a submissive only went on all fours to their own mistress) and touched his left shoulder with his right hand, the accepted respectful greeting.

"My pardon for interrupting your thoughts, mistress Moira," he said, in his soft Western British tone. "I wanted, if you'll permit, to congratulate you upon the portfolio of sketches you produced. The one of various world leaders. I chanced upon it in the club library, and I was enraptured."

And then, before she could reply, added the other thing. The thing he knew she would really want to hear.

"And also, if I may be so bold, point out that today you look even more beautiful than usual?"

 

[Candy_demon21]

The other dom and her pet walked away, proud of themselves. Moira watched after them, the bitter taste of bile raising into her throat and burning the soft, sensitive tissue. It took every bit of strength that the pathetic little dom had to swallow back the taste and simply stay silent at her perch. The feelings she had swirling around in her gut however told her that she was hardly ok. Anxiouty was winning over in a tug-o-war with her 'image'.

'Run away, stop pretending to be something or something that you're not. You try so damned hard to be everything those woman in your books are, but let's face it, you're hardly them, so why keep trying to be them.' It was the ghost in her head that had always told her she was never good enough for this or for that, it was always the same thing. At the end of the day, it always boiled down to one simple thing, "Give up."
She wasn't going to give up, was she? Looking at herself again in the floor length mirror; at the red hair, the wild curls that framed her face, her thick thighs and slight overbite, she was ugly.
And in that moment, Moira realized she was done.
With shake knees, and an even shakier resolve, Moira stood and sniffled, feeling the burning in the back of her eyes, the familiar sting of tears, 'Don't you cry, don't you dare cry!'She growled inwardly, knowing if she was caught with tears, she'd never be able to hold her head high, even if that was a delusion, and walk back into this club again.

So many things were spinning around her head, making her feel faint that she had hardly noticed the stranger, one who she had either never seen or had never cared to look for, approaching. Everything to her in that moment was a blur of shapeless colors, and in that same moment a charming voice broke her from her panic.
It was then that Moira looked down at the kneeling figure before her. Who? The word formed on her lips but never broke made it any further. Her golden orbs scanned the figure up and down, his voice gentle and submissive? There was a tone that all the subs had, Moira had never been privy to them, so it came to her as a huge shock.

"Um I-" She stammered, that was before her inner goddess kicked her almost painfully, 'Idiot!' It bellowed angrily, "You have a man, kneeling before you, apologizing for interrupting your thoughts and your only response is 'Um I-'. I'm sorry but did I miss something. Take charge.' But the courage that she had stored away for moments like this was no where to be found. It had been stolen was more so the the truth, the dom who had berated her had taken that, how was she suppose to find the courage to speak to someone, let alone a kneeling sub.

"N-no, all is forgive."She weakly replied, feeling the shakiness in her knees slowly creep up her thighs, over her round bottom and over her torso and grip her head in a terrifying clench. He continued on, begging her to congratulate her on her sketches. What were those again? When he said of the leaders she gasped, her cheeks heating up again with that uncharacteristic blush. "O-Oh, w-well-" she stammered again, this time her inner goddess smacked her tiny little hand against her forehead, "I accept your compliment s-sir."

The world had slipped out before she could catch it. Sir? She asked herself, realizing she had just given up any chance of calling this man her sub, she had to correct it before he stood and walked away. "I-I mean..."she started, nothing brilliant coming to mind, finally giving up trying to remedy her foul up.
With an annoyed sigh, Moira sank slowly back down into the booth, pinching the bridge of her nose in an effort to stop the ensuing headache she knew was coming.

Just as she was about to say he could get up and leave her, like she knew he would, her blood chilled but the crimson blush heated her cheeks and slowly spread to the swell of her breasts. Beautiful? Had he just said what she had thought she just heard? It was a lie, or worse, it was her mind playing tricks on her. No sub, in this lifetime, had ever referred to this fizzy hair albino as beautiful.

"Y-you've seen me before?" Another omission, mentally kicking herself for sound so much like a sub, "Of-of course you've seen me, I mean. How could any one miss me?" Her sultry voice faulted, at the end as she questioned herself. She was right however, how could anyone miss her? Her hair alone burned like fire in the dimly lit club, it that hadn't given her away, than it was certainly her attitude that did.

With another long sigh, Moira fell silent, feeling she was just digging herself deeper into a hole she'd never, not even with a latter, could climb out of.

 

[Alan23]

"Yes, Ma'am," replied Lucas. He sensed her discomfort, sensed she was, like himself, playing a part. But, unlike himself, playing it not nearly as convincingly. "It is, as you point out, somewhat difficult to miss you. Since I've been here I've noticed you a number of times. I took the liberty of asking around among the other submissives, to find out your name, and ask forgiveness for my temerity in so doing. It's just that..." He forced a note of slight delicacy into his voice, though it was far from genuine. Appearing to be too much in control was counter-productive, especially when dealing with a woman in such an obvious state of confusion, yet whose very self-image could only be preserved by pretending otherwise.

"I asked... again, Ma'am, I seek your pardon... 'Just who is that amazingly pretty lady, with the beautiful Titian hair?' and thus, learned your name. And once learned, I immediately sought out your works, since I was told dome copies of your work are held here in the club library. Hence my presumption in venturing to congratulate you."

In fact, this was not entirely a lie, for he had heard her talked about. Mostly as "that ridiculous pseudo-domme, who's scared of her own shadow," "That dweeb that can't get herself a subbie" "Oh yeah, that chick with the fat thighs and the white skin, and red hair, looks a total sight," or, most pathetically of all, "Oh yeah, the domme with no piercings. Fuck, the time she'd been here you'd have thought even she might have achieved something!"

But he kept the truth to himself, and took refuse in discretion. He saw her blush, saw her pinching the bridge of her nose, registered her obvious embarrassment.

"May I be so bold as to ask, Ma'am, is that a headache? I... some of the other dommes, Ma'am, have been kind enough to say I'm somewhat skilled at temple massage. Might I be granted the privilege of attempting to assuage your pain - or perhaps I spoke out of turn, and of course you'll dismiss me for my presumption?"