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From my purse, I take out one of the several pairs of handcuffs, and I walk over to his prone body. I place one foot on his back between his shoulder blades, step down hard — which draws a pleased moan from him — and then I slap the cuffs on his wrists. They shut with a snap.
He moans again.
“Do you like that, you maggot? Do you like lying in the filth while I step on you? Do you like it when I grind you beneath my heel like the fucking grub you are?”
“Yes, oh fuck, yes. Do it harder.”
I do.
Because there’s a large part of me that finds this newfound responsibility to be quite enjoyable.
“Now, it’s time for your tribute.”
“Tribute?”
“Worm, what did I tell you about asking me questions?”
“I’m sorry, Mistress.”
I step down harder on him, the pressure of my heel drawing a deep, lustful moan from his chest.
“Your money. Your tribute for your mistress. Where is it?”
“In my right jacket pocket. Take whatever you want, Mistress.”
“Oh, I will, you worthless, scum-covered grub,” I say. And I do. Not everything, but more than enough. Somehow, it feels wrong to rob this guy of everything he has.
Again, I’m responsible. Even when dominating a drug dealer and taking his money.
“Is it enough, Mistress?”
I bring the whip down hard on his ass. Once, twice, three times — it sends a tingle through me.
“What did I tell you about questions? Yes, your tribute is sufficient. Barely. Your attitude, however, is so disappointing. You disgust me.” I pause, not because I want to pause, but because his moan is so damn loud. I step down harder and then whip him again and fight back a thrilled giggle as he moans again. “You have earned yourself a time-out in the filth, in the scum, in the slime, in the muck on this fucking street, to think about just how to properly behave for your Mistress.”
I walk away. Money in hand, smile on my lips, and a thrill… somewhere… from behaving so responsibly, I head toward the truck, where Wraith watches me with a look on his face that is somewhere between stupefied and in awe.
“You’re just leaving me?” calls out the drug dealer from his position face-down in a mud puddle.
“Yes.”
“Wait, fuck. Did you just fucking rob me?”
“Okay, bye. And thanks for the money.”
He calls out something else, but I’ve already shut him out. The look on Wraith’s face — which now also has some measure of stunned respect — is all I have the focus for.
When I slip into the driver’s seat of the truck, he lets out a low whistle.
“That was fucking hot,” he says. “Crazy, but hot.”
“Responsibility pays.”
“Maybe Responsible June isn’t so bad. Maybe I should trust you more often.”
Did he really just say that? That he can trust me more often? And in a tone that says he’s not being sarcastic?
That little thrill I earned from dominating that drug dealer intensifies, becomes something real, and my smile grows and I lean across the seats to take hold of Wraith by the chin and then bring my lips to his ear. His eyes are wide. Startled. And that thrill inside me turns into a raging furnace of pleasure.
