Cow

by Eva

I suppose I'm getting old. Too old for this at any rate: the beating of men who are inadequate, the punishment of their laziness and arrogance.

My arm aches too often from wielding the riding crop and the paddle. Roll on the day they invent an electrical whip that does it for you.

Oh, they flock to see me still. My mature curves and wrinkles and even the sagging boobs do not seem to dissuade them. Men of all ages roll up at my door. A succession of the fat and the thin, the old and (most surprisingly) the young.

Young men barely able to sustain an erection. They seem to get younger by the year, or maybe it is me getting older with each season. Whatever: they come and stare at me in my severe, body-clinging leather outfits, the way my heavy tits threaten to spill out of my outfit, the way my thickened waist strains in the corset I wear. God knows what they have been brought up to think about, what brought them to seek me out. But they do, no doubt dreaming of their mummies and aunties or, heaven forbid, their grannies whipping them into submission.

Maybe that's what they see in me. The controlling grandmother. White hair, deep lines on my skin. Creases, if you like. The marks on the bridge of my nose where I have to wear reading glasses almost all the time I'm not dominating men. I still strut around in high heels, naturally. I estimate fifty per cent of the males I see want to wank themselves stupid because of my shapely, stockinged legs –– stockings with seams, no less –– and high heels clicking on the polished floor of my 'office.' The polished floor kept spotless by slobbering, blubbering men put to work on hands and knees cleaning it as part of their punishment.

Their duty to please the superior woman. But my feet ache in heels these days and I long to get out of them and into something less demanding. But as it's all about sex, they pay.

So being paid, I wear them still.

Did I say they want sex? If I did, I was lying. They aren't going to get sex. They get nothing from me directly. They can look but not touch, they can dream and rub their pathetic cocks if they wish. For a small extra fee, of course. They aren't totally denied, as that would be unreasonably cruel. I do love being reasonably cruel, I smirk to myself. They are allowed to splatter their semen in a bucket or down the toilet pan or in some of my old (and cheap) nylon knickers. Panties, they seem to want to call them.

But I'm old fashioned. I let them use a pair of my old fashioned big, stained-gusset knickers to jerk themselves stupid. Even more stupid than before, I remind myself.

So why am I telling you this? Ah yes, the loneliness.

You see, watching men excite themselves looking at me is fine to a point. But they never touch, never caress. I never get any one of them to hold me. No kiss, no cuddles, no kind words other than a profusion of whimpering 'thank you, mistress.' I go home to an empty flat after a day at the spotlessly-clean 'office,' after I have put away my crops and unhooked my corset and kicked off my heels.

An ordinary woman the wrong side (just) of 55 heading for my television and dinner-for- one.

Oh, sure, I can afford to eat out and eat well on what I earn from the stupid, simpering males I see but I detest eating on my own. I also have a not unreasonable fear that the highly-paid lawyer I was thrashing, or the senior police officer I was allowing to wank, or the high-flying executive I permitted to lick the soles of my shoes will turn up at the next table. Turn up and recognise the rather dowdy and somewhat plain woman sat alone. And they themselves wouldn't be alone. They would have a wife on their arm or a younger girlfriend or some woman they were trying to impress who was accompanying them.

Women with tits that don't need so much upholstery to keep their spirits up.

And that would make it harder for me, seeing them and seeing they were thinking about a normal love life. Yes, even the ones who beg and plead to be punished by a mature woman have the chance to have affairs and cement marriages and establish new relationships.

So to preserve what dignity I have left I go home alone and eat alone. I sit and watch television and feel annoyed if there is some show that has a stereotype of the dominant madame, usually some badly-aimed and misfiring joke that we doms are always powerful all the time.

Inside, I'm not. Inside I'm me. Inside I need… well, I'm not sure.

Or I wasn't. Not until Thandi came along.

Thandi is a black girl. I assume that Thandi is short for the South African name Thandiwe, but I never have asked. All I care about is she is beautiful. She is eight year old and with those large bright eyes that African children have. Full, sensuous lips; there is nothing mean about her looks in any way. And the tight mass of black, curly hair that adorns her head is fascinating. Beautiful and happy and lively and the person I love.

I love her? What's not to love, as they say.

I got to know Thandi through her mother, Masie. Masie is a prostitute; a black woman living in London who probably shouldn't be in this country. It happens, and everyone knows someone who shouldn't be here or should have applied for some piece of paper to stay, and hookers are no exception. Now as a dominatrix I don't need to meet with prostitutes; they are in another branch of the sex industry to mine. Just, I suppose, how air traffic controllers don't have to associate with truck drivers. We sex workers are not in some sort of guild or mutual support club. We benefit from the paying lusts of men in different ways, but that's all. But some ladies of the night want to be themselves, want to talk. Perhaps it is fear of being hurt (and they are at risk as they don't have the whips and chains I have to keep the sleazy men under control) or maybe it is just to have a conversation that doesn't involve the phrases 'arse fuck' or 'blow job' or 'how much, whore?'

So Masie stops by where I work from time to time, when she knows I'm not busy, and sometimes she brings Thandi. Maybe Masie isn't a working girl when she brings her daughter, but she ushers the sweetheart in and I let Thandi perch herself on the big high back armchair I have (the dominant chair, I call it) and read a book or play with her little hand-held console game while her mother and I chat and moan and bitch about life over a cup of tea as only two women can.

And Thandi would look up at me with those big appealing eyes of hers and look at what I am wearing and smile, as if she understood.

Thandi never used to say much to me, perhaps because her mum was there. Kids can be shy. But one day she asked if she could ask a question. I nodded, and she said it clearly and thoughtfully: "The way you dress up… Why is it like a cow, Miss Domino." (Miss Domino I should tell you is my business name; so much better than Edith).

I was a little taken aback but then I saw the book open on Thandi's lap was a picture book of a farm, and there was a cow in it. But bright girl that she was she had understood I wore leather and leather came from cows so therefore people who wore leather, she must have reasoned, must have a bit of cow in them.

I smiled. "Because I can be a bitch," I said, not able to be offended in any way with this lovely little girl.

The girl jumped off the big chair and grinned as she came over to me. Her mother may well as not been there, for all the little girl's attention was on me. "I like you being a cow and a bitch," she said as she stood close by me. She put her hand on my bare arm (I peel my leather opera-length gloves off when I'm not actually working on a hapless male) and stroked it. Lovingly, like she cared.

"You're so pale," she said earnestly. "Not dark like me."

"Not dark like you at all. But I wear black here," I patted my leather corseted belly. Creaking in its black leather.

"And here," said Thandi, and put her little hand on one of my leather clad boobs. She stroked it, like she adored it. More importantly, I liked it too, and my nipples got hard in the leather cups.

A fire had burst into life in me, and I blushed a little. Me who never blushes when a man does revolting things in front of me. I shot a look at Masie but she was sipping her tea, seemingly not caring.

"I like you," said Thandi. "I like you in your cow outfit," and she laughed.

"And I like you, Thandi," I said, not sure what to do now. Fortunately Thandi did. She leaned in and kissed me on the lips, a soft and gentle kiss that brushed my lipsticked mouth. And better, her hand didn't leave my boob, and she did the kiss again but this time let it hover longer.

"So you'll be alright with Thandi," said Masie, interrupting us by standing up.

"What?" I had no idea what the black woman was on about.

"Looking after Thandi. For now. I have to see a man in a hotel." Masie slung her bag over her shoulder and nodded at me and Thandi as a sort of farewell gesture. "I won't be long. And as I can't take her with me and as she likes you… well, you said you didn't have an appointment for an hour, right?"

It was all said as if we had agreed this somehow. I couldn't recall the conversation, how we said anything like that. "I'm not a childminder," I began, but Thandi stopped me.

"I'd like to stay and play," said the girl, all her big eyes on me. "Can I please stay?"

"I don't know what to do," I said, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. "I mean, about looking after you."

"Just let me play kissing and holding and touching," said Thandi, her eyes sparkling.

"She likes women," said Masie, who was at the office door. "More reliable than men. Learned that already," she added, and was gone.

Thandi and I played kissing games and touching games and she loved getting her hands inside my bra and inside my leather knickers and was fascinated when I told her I didn't let anyone touch me like that. "Cows don't," I added breathlessly as her little fingers found my clit. "Only calfs can touch cows."

"The domino cow lets the calf touch her," grinned Thandi, and with astonishing skill she brought me to an orgasm. Probably the best one I'd ever had; one hand deep in my pants, one hand on my heaving bust and her sweet, full lips against mine. Oh, and her small tongue in my mouth, just to help me along.

Where Thandi had got such skills from I have no idea. Of course, I know women know how to love other women. It's an instinctive thing, something women can do for other women naturally. But a girl? Now that was something quite unexpected.

Thandi was all over me, playing and holding and exploring me. And she let me do it to her, too. Gently, of course, rubbing her and teasing her and always the kisses.

Kisses with the cow on me creaking and groaning with the excited movement. The cow in me panting with desire.

And when she had finally gone and I had a male client to attend to, I thrashed his sorry pathetic pale hide brutally because I reasoned he had stopped me keeping Thandi and doing more with her.

But Thandi would come back and throw herself into my arms and kiss me like we were lovers. Like lovers really in love.

I suppose I had 'babysat' Thandi a dozen times and each time I regretted not cancelling my appointments when our time was up, but even half-an-hour with her was a delight. If we had time she would insist I showed her all my cow outfits as she called them and admired me and wanted me, and I was in love.

And then one fine day, Masie never came back for her daughter.

—-

It is the nature of sex workers like Masie, especially with her illegal status in the country, to simply disappear. I never knew what happened to her, and of course I wasn't in any kind of position to ask about her. Oh, sure, a bolder person than me would have asked one of the senior cops who come to me to be beaten and abused. I could have grilled them for information and they could have started whatever enquiry they wanted in exchange for a free whipping or extra verbal abuse. But there were several issues here, with the first and foremost being you never really want to be involved, even casually, with police enquiries. Someone might start asking the wrong questions as far as I was concerned. Anyway even if I knew, what was I going to do about it? Sex workers, hookers, even gays who live 'on the edge' all go missing on a regular basis. Some turn up again, some don't. Or occasionally they turn up cold.

Sometimes it's better not to ask too closely. Better not to know. Plus the cops who I brutally beat wouldn't have wanted to know about work. I was their diversion away from the pressures of the job and far from their wives; when they grovelled they just wanted to feel the bite of my whip and the jab of my high heel in their scrotum. If I allowed them to be ungagged it was so they could beg and cry and not so they could talk to me. After all, what could they say that would impress me after my loving chats with Thandi?

Yeah, I can be a cruel bitch, I know.

But the main thing was I got to keep Thandi. I got to keep her because there was no one else in her life, at least not anyone she owned up to. I have no idea who her father was or whether he was even in this country. I don't suppose Thandi knew either: whatever the reason, she never said and to be honest I never asked. No one came to claim the girl and I was happy with that.

The funny thing is she was happy with me. She did ask briefly where her mum was about two hours after she was due to be collected. Masie was supposed to come back but didn't. When eventually I said I didn't know where her mum was she was content to curl up next to me and do what she always did and play with my udders. She had taken to calling them that because I was a cow, apparently, and she loved me in leather. I hope really she loved me in any way, but it still amused her I wore leather outfits.

Of course having udders like I did meant she got to suck my nipples. I even think I lactated a little, which was probably my imagination, but we both got a lot of comfort from that. At home I began to wear my leather outfits (Thandi I am pleased to say was more than happy to share my bed as there was no other place for her to sleep) and she would say "cow time" or "udder time" and off we'd go. Suck and fuck or lick and flick when she wanted to excite my nipples, but the sight of her lovely black face and big eyes would melt my heart and set my pussy dripping. More than any man ever could.

And the sight of her naked body with its smooth and shiny dark skin would drive me mad. Her flat chest and hairless pussy was sensational to look at and even better to touch and caress. I must have kissed every inch of her body a thousand times, and she loved it as I did.

I admit I was restless for a few weeks, imagining at any moment that Masie might come back as suddenly as she had gone. Perhaps even that some mysterious (and undeserving) relative would show up, or some interfering social workers arrive to ruin my happiness. More likely the police out to investigate another body found in the river. But no one came.

The papers never said anything about a missing hooker — though they probably wouldn't as it was just one of those things rather than a tragedy — and the longer we went with no knock on my door the better I felt. Good news in my game is no one asking questions.

I had cancelled all my appointments the day I got Thandi and for a while I did contemplate giving up the dom-job. Like I say, I'm too old for it now. But in a way Thandi kept my interest going. In her words she wanted me to dress as a cow, have my udders out and felt up by her (and bitten and nibbled and tweaked and toyed with) and with it her small fist worked in and out of my big old cunt. Trust me, the feeling of a girl's small hand going like a piston in and out down there is beyond description.

We would spend all night in bed and laugh and play and fuck and she would bury her face between my legs and bite my clit with such tenderness I would both weep with joy and gasp with pain. But she did it with love and how could I object to that? Whatever she wanted I would do for her, and let her do what she wanted to me. No matter what the discomfort I would endure it to make her happy. But then, it made me happy too.

I showed her how to use a strap on and we took it in turns, though I loved it most of all when she mounted me and would say, "Beg for it, cow." Oh, how the cow would beg and moo for more sex.

In time she will get her first leather outfit –– probably white as a contrast to my black –– and I promised one day I would show her how to whip a man. How to make a pathetic male worship the woman without touching her. But that's all a long way off and thankfully we have lots of woman-girl sex ahead of us before we get to that.

Hopefully too her boobs will grow and in time I can play with them like she plays with mine, with lots of kisses and squeezes and bites. Oh God, her bites drive me nuts but I cant help myself surrendering to her with my juices running down my legs like crazy and my heart pounding. And all the time Thandi's big, sexy sparkling eyes on me, measuring each reaction and judging each new effort.

No wonder I love her so. No wonder I will do anything to please her.

Thandi and I talk about our love and our desires often over dinner, because now I no longer eat alone. I have the love of my life with me now.

And trust me, a cow no longer grazing alone is a very happy cow.