Empress of the Fields.

Stephen James strolls across the meadow, swishing a stick he found along the way. It is August 30th - the week after his 18th birthday.

The sun beats down as he clears a path through the tall grass, which is nearly head high in places. As he swings the stick, he is also warning any nearby snakes of his approach.

The paces are brisk, impatient and full of purpose. He has a pornographic magazine in his pocket and he is hoping to find a quiet spot to read it.

Stephen has always been shy with the opposite sex. His last approach at a school disco had ended when a girl had spat at him after he tried to kiss her. So he had spent a portion of his birthday money on the first top shelf magazine he had hurriedly grabbed at the local shop.

The young man's urgent pace is broken as a clamp snaps shut around his ankle. Stephen falls heavily to the floor of the dry dusty meadow.

He strikes the shape that is holding him and a clanging noise is returned as he hits steel. He sits down and clears the grass around his leg. He is caught in a trap. Not the hideous mantraps of old that would have cut him through to the bone but an ingenious device that has clamped around his ankle and could not be opened out again.

He hears a rustle in the grass, and from his awkward prone position, he hears a haughty female voice.

"I've got you."

She is wearing handmade leather thigh boots, tucked in to tight jodhpurs, a white blouse with a black tie and a dressage hat with a black net veil. It is difficult to make out her face behind the veil but Stephen can see the lines of high cheekbones and perfect clear skin.

This vision of perfection of is Hannah Lanford, the 19 year old daughter of a local landowner. Her right hand held an elegant, very thin, brown leather dressage crop which she now points at him.

"What have you got there? She asks"

Stephen immediately feels extremely embarrassed about the dark secret in his pocket.

"Erm…" stammers Stephen.

Hannah marches imperiously over to him and grabs the magazine.

"How disgraceful," says Hannah "I would have thought you could have done better than that and at least shown a bit of imagination". What are you doing with that filth in my meadow?"

'Nothing, just going for a walk' he mumbles.

He wonders why he has to answer to her and tries to regain some dignity.

'Besides you haven't the right to treat me like I am trespassing on your property. What do you think this is, Sherwood Forest?'

He saw her eyes narrow behind the veil and her lips harden.

"It's certainly not Sherwood Forest. This is my meadow."

She is Empress of all she surveys. The small animals scurry around at her behest, with her permission. Birds flying overhead are carrying messages from one side of her empire to the other. And now she surveys an interloper in her realm.

"Stay exactly where you are".

"Well that's a laugh I'm not exactly going anywhere with this thing on my foot!" he retorts.

Stephen immediately regrets being so flippant in reply to her cold haughty tone. At the same time she advances to his kneeling body and slaps his face sharply. Stephen shouts out and shies away. Whatever her intention is, she takes it very seriously.

Without thought he obeys her command to stop trying to remove the device from his leg. He feels trapped, cornered. Had it been a male voice his instinct would have been to resist. Perhaps to run, perhaps to fight, or perhaps to bide his time and await an opportunity to outwit his opponent. But against this female voice he has no such options. He stands still, and waits.

She approaches, grabs his arms and pinions them behind him.

"Keep your hands behind your back" she orders, and is delighted that he does not attempt to struggle free. Quickly she ties his wrists with white cord.

"Kneel".

No reaction. She leans in right behind his ear and whispers softly.

"Kneel".

He feels as much as hears the word. With his heart sinking, he drops slowly and reluctantly to his knees. It is awkward and he stumbles with the device still attached to his leg.

She moves around in front of him. He cannot help noticing the powerful knowing look in her eyes. The gorgeously angular face and the charismatic vortex trauma of her green eyes, glinting beneath the veil. She lifts his chin with the end of the crop.

"This is my meadow, my empire. It is full of flowers, butterflies and other beautiful creatures. And some not so beautiful creatures……." she trails off.

"I am the Empress of the Meadows and that is what you will call me. You are in my meadow so you are mine as well. As long as you do everything I say, I will let you go later. Do you agree captive?"

"I agree…Empress," he mutters in reply, as the crop digs into his throat.

Edwina takes a key from her pocket and removes the mantrap. She drags him to his feet and attaches his arms to a length of rope around the neck of her horse.

She mounts her 16 hand thoroughbred with confidence. She looks down on Stephen, and then whispers affectionately to the horse:

"Walk on, darling" then, motioning to the Stephen impatiently "You too. Walk on captive."

That's when he got a hard on. His face flushes with desire as he marches besides this perfectly formed young woman

She directs them back to her camp and has him lie down on his back, hands still tied. Standing over him, she strokes his chest with the leather crop then places it to one side.

She removes his trousers. He shudders. She sits on his chest and her leather-gloved hand reaches behind to take hold of his genitals. His virginal cock is swelling. He doesn't understand the feeling but knows that something very exciting is happening to him.

She understands more. She has already learned that boys are more malleable when this happens - especially the ones who go like this when she is tormenting them.

Stephen trembles as he sees her beautiful cheeks angle up and down as she gathers saliva like an expert sampling wine.

He starts to flinch as he fears she will spit violently on him - like the girl from the village school he tried to kiss. Instead, she leans forward and lets a long string of spittle dribble from her mouth down onto his face. At first he flinches, but there is no escape and he just as quickly gives in to it. She knows she has him now and moves in to cement her victory in words.

"Do you like my kiss, captive? Say you like it"

"I like it", quick as a flash.

"Thank me then"

"Thank you."

"Call me Empress"

"Thank you Empress." No hesitation at all. Good.

Well done, captive. It is time for a French kiss now. Deep and probing. Open your mouth".

He opens his mouth.

"Wider".

He opens wider, and then starts to turn his head away from her. Then in silence, his face rights itself, like a cork in water. He meets her gaze. The Empress is glowing with a power and presence that urges him to surrender. She brings up a big gobbet of saliva and spits it into his waiting mouth. Stephen closes his eyes and drinks her nectar eagerly as it falls warm onto his tongue and throat.

"Now swallow it" she gloats.

Slowly he swallows his Adam's apple bobbing sharply with the indignity of it. There is a pause.

"Thank you Empress" he volunteers.

A wide grin spreads across her face and her grip on his boyhood tightens. She feels his young rod twitch in her hand and, moments later, detects a warm sticky feeling between her fingers.

Anyone with a cinematic imagination would now see the sky darken and lighten and darken again in quick succession. Clouds scurrying madly across the sky and sun and moon spinning round like tops. Time, in other words, passes.

Stephen, a successful avant garde sculptor kneels on the floor of his studio. He is now 35, but still a captive. Instead of delicate warm fingers in leather gloves, his sex now knows the cold steel of a chastity cage, so intricate that it could have been one of his own works.

On his back, he bears the perfect form of his Empress. She wears tight jodhpurs, soft leather boots that were made to fit her delicate feet and a severe, very tight dressage coat. Her face is flushed with the air from this afternoon's ride as she puts on her make-up.

"You will tell me what you are thinking slave".

"Just remembering the first time we met, Empress."

"Oh you were so lucky you wandered into that meadow. Just imagine how you might have ended up if you hadn't".

"Dreadful thought. Somehow I feel sure that we would have met eventually in any case. But just think what a state I would have got into without your guidance all that time. What awful selfish habits, what weakness. So desperately in need of your training".

"I would have had to be very hard on you if I found you in that sort of state".

"I know it, Empress. If it is possible to be more grateful to you than I am now, it would be then - if you found me still worthy to be nurtured and trained for your service".

"Yes," muses the Empress, putting the finishing touches of mascara to her eyelashes, "I wonder...Anyway, do my hair."

.....Such close proximity to her always makes him tremble; at times like this the sense of her divinity is palpable. He begins tentatively, his nerves affecting his execution of a service that he has not performed before. The brush feels strange in his hand, but it is that thick, lush hair that renders him clumsy: the scent of it, the texture of it, its movement through his fingers and the bristles of the brush, overpowering his senses. Still uncomfortable at standing above his Mistress, he yearns to bend his face to her beautiful head and plant an adoring kiss there. But touching the Empress is not permitted without her express permission so he curtails his desire and concentrates on his task.

Or at least he tries to concentrate: he fumbles, the brush clips her ear, and she glares at him in the mirror.

"Fool! Do that again and I will punish you!"

In her lexicon of humiliation there are a few words that crush him utterly; "Fool" is one of them.

He hates to fail her - and loathes himself for the failing. A cross word from his beloved Empress falls on him with the same bitter bite of her whips. And the threat of her discipline sends an icy wind through his heart. The Empress knows Stephen too well for him to escape her corrective attentions.

He mutters an apology, fights back the tears that well in his eyes, and tries to steady his hands. She is so lovely in her cruel hauteur, and he feels like a mongrel wretch beside her beauty, no more than a functioning chattel, and a malfunctioning one at that. He is not today being treated as the pampered lap dog of an Empress.

Fear of her further wrath, however, clears his mind and all else in existence falls away, leaving only her head, the brush and his hands in his consciousness. The brush begins to glide in sweet rhythm; the free hand caresses the hair into the style she favours. He begins to feel that spiritual ecstasy when his service merges into her being, and the sacred union of Mistress and slave takes place. What this can mean for an atheist he is unclear but with so much about being owned by her a mystery to him, he simply accedes to the experience. Counting the strokes becomes a silent mantra and 98...99...100 cease to be mere numbers and become words in his head:

"Take me, Mistress, I beg you, take me to the brink of my endurance, and take your pleasure from me."

He puts the brush down on her dressing table, bows, and stands to attention, waiting for her instruction.

"Now I am going to give you 100 strokes: get over my knee!"

Without hesitation - for he knows the punishment for even a moment's delay in obeying her - he spreads himself across her lap and feels her left arm lock him into place. Her right hand comes down on his bottom. "Spanking" he always thought was the mildest form of CP, just a nice tingling sensation - until he felt the force of her hand, and the unerring, metronomic accuracy with which she brought it down on the same spot three, four times in a row. By the eighth stroke he is squirming, and his bottom is inflamed. How on earth is he going to stand a further onslaught?

Half way through she will say that her hand is hurting and switch to using the hairbrush. It is a specially heavy and elegant brush he bought for her. Indeed, she insists he buy all her tools for disciplining him as a mark of his commitment to the Empress and to his own continuous improvement.

As the brush falls with crisp staccato blows on his flesh, he has to cry out and use his safe word. Immediately she stops, as he knew she would. The Empress, his owner is thorough, not brutal. But he will have to offer some other satisfactions to her.

"Grovel at my feet, dog, and lick my shoes. Let's see how pathetically you can beg for mercy."

She towers above his prostrate form and watches in triumph his abject grovelling and impassioned licking. His whimpering for mercy is so weak that it hardly reaches her ears. Still it has had a limiting effect on her before so he thinks it worth appealing to her compassion again.

He hates the hairbrush and the heavy stinging pain it delivers across his entire buttocks. He implores her again with a crescendo of whispers:

"Mercy. Mercy please, noble Empress."

"No mercy for you, slave! Kow-tow again!"

He can't believe what he is hearing. She would not continue to discipline him if he has indicated he is unable to take anymore. She pushes him, she hurts him but she will not harm him. But then he discovers it is only her way of playing with him, winding him up tightly and preying on his frayed nerves.
She bends towards him and whispers in his ear: "Good lapdog. My darling lapdog."

At her words, her precious wonderful words, he is completely overcome with gratitude and adoring love. He longs to kiss her feet repeatedly in passionate devotion.

"Sweetest slave. You have done well. You have done very well. I am pleased."

She moves away, savouring his desperate, imploring look. In his eyes is the same longing and urgency that drove him to walk the meadow all those years ago.

"Ah, No!" she murmurs. "There is more for you to do before that is permitted."

She moves to recline on the cushions, sighing sensuously as the weight comes off her feet. Meanwhile he opens the bottle in the fridge and pours her a glass of a fine white Burgundy, offering it to her on his knees

"Water too, my little puppy," she says.

He takes a fresh bottle of still water and pours a glass for the Empress. She drinks it quickly.

She then nods and lies back, spreading her glorious thighs and flexing her knees. She keeps on the heels of her boots, since they angle her legs in a way very suitable for what she has in mind. At the apex of her thighs is the sacred grove surrounding her font of fulfilment. It is vigorous, but does not hide the creamy thick-lipped cleft, which is the gateway to the holy place. She shifts a little, and he glimpses pink glistening flesh within the lips. He moves his head closer, breathing her unique, enchanting aroma, his tongue already moving, preparing.

His hands move over her belly and up to her lovely, firm breasts, letting the heel of his palm brush over their undersides, and his fingers float to and fro over her nipples, heart stoppingly long and stiff.

Now his tongue is brushing her curls, parting them, rubbing lightly over her creamy lips. He feels her body tensing and beginning to vibrate, and draws his fingers repeatedly up her nipples, while extending his tongue into her cleft, silky with the flow of juice. Her muscles all tense together, and then with a cry of stormy satisfaction she comes, and comes, and comes.

Marquise