The Bag Lady and the Domme Ch. 01


This story comes from seeing a very young and pretty (underneath the grime) female tramp in a park. Her clothes were of high quality but filthy. She did not look like her mind was disturbed. I wondered how she had got in the state she was in…

It was strange how we met. I was searching for my dog in the park and she was collecting discarded cans, hoping to make some money from them. Her clothes were tatty, yet I could see from the stitching on those rare areas not caked in grime they were at one time expensive. Maybe she had got them from a charity or she had been rich and famous then fallen on hard times?

I kept looking at her, glancing so as not to appear rude by staring. The more I looked, the more I thought I remembered her. She smiled. A surprisingly white set of teeth showed behind all that dirt. Oh and her eyes! They were a beautiful bright blue and so clear I swear I could see my own reflection in them. I looked away, embarrassed at being caught out. She laughed.

“You don’t recognise me do you?” she asked, chuckling.

“No, no, I don’t,” I replied, still embarrassed but sufficiently curious to turn and face her.

We must have looked so incongruous talking there together. I was in my best work clothes, expensive but severe dark tweed suit over a pure white blouse with its ruff at the neck. My shoes were Jimmy Choos, stockings Woolsey and underwear by La Perla. There was not a thing on me that cost under £200 bar the stockings and they had not been cheap. I’d worked hard to get to where I was and no one was going to deny me the chance to show off my success. Yet there was she, someone who knew me as I struggled to recollect her, wearing something that was once designer I was sure, but what I had no idea.

“It’s Gucci and Versace if you want to know,” she said, kindly and in the plumiest of English accents. I was shocked that she knew so well what I was thinking. “You were always one for the fashions at school and so envious of me when I got that modelling assignment. Well, I’m not exactly on the front of Vogue anymore, am I?”

I was stunned, puzzled, and then it dawned on me.


I could not believe it. The sexiest, most beautiful girl at the Academy was in front of me and down at heals. Flashes of images filled my head. I remembered her walk to her desk every day. I’d had a crush on her. When she was in the shower after games I’d always ensure I was next to her, ready with a bar of soap or offering to scrub her back. I’d make it look as if I was doing her a favour, by saying she could scrub mine for me in exchange, but I longed for those lessons where I could touch her naked flesh. Of course, it had just been a girlie crush and now I was married with two lovely children, soon to leave school, and a husband. Well, I was married but Jonathan was always away on some International assignment and with my busy job I’d packed my two girls off to boarding school. To the Academy of course, where three generations of girls from the Harmondon family had gone. Now they were close to university they’d been packed off to a Swiss Finishing school, just like I had been and my mother and hers before her too.

I had to hug Clarissa. I didn’t care that her clothes probably smelt of piss and were as dirty as hell. I was going to hold her. She had been my idol and yes, so kind then too. She’d known I was besotted with her but never made fun of me nor took advantage of it. She always returned any favour in some way. In the shower she would carefully and very sensually rub my back and buttocks, making sure plenty of soap caressed my skin and washed away the sweat and grime of the hockey fields. Once, just before we left that school forever and as young adults, she surreptitiously left a kiss on my neck and whispered ‘Thank you. I will miss this time together. You have been a true friend.’ I’d not wanted to wash away that kiss. I felt it reverberate right through my body, stopping to excite and inflame my young clitoris.

“Clarissa!” I said again, advancing and putting my arms tightly around her. She winced, but not from rejecting my hug. No, she was in pain. I pulled back and looked at her, concerned. “What has happened?”

“Oh, I was sleeping under the arches. You know, where all the homeless sleep? A…”

Yes I did know. It confirmed all my worst fears. That was it. I knew what I had to do.

“You are coming home with me. No arguments.” I interrupted, “I live over there, on the edge of the park. See the house with the Georgian wrought iron railings along the balconies? Right, forget any belongings I’ll sort you out. We were always the same size and I guess we still are, though I have a few extra pounds from allegedly being a content mother and wife.” I laughed at myself, seeing the irony in it, knowing it was a lie. I was unhappy as a wife and useless as a mother. Sending them to boarding school was not about their education, it was about me having the space to think, to define who I was at work and home eskişehir escort without them under my feet and dividing my attention from this one goal. I liked to be in control.

I took her hand and almost dragged her after me, leaving the big bag of empties she had collected where they lay, though she did scoop up a rather incongruous black leather briefcase as we moved. She was laughing, not hysterically like some demented bag-lady but with joy and seeing this as fun. I imagined too it was with a sense of relief. And I was like a woman on a mission, taking control, pulling her along behind this ship in full sail.

When we reached the door I was reminded of what I was meant to be doing in the park. Sitting on the step, as if nothing had happened and he hadn’t been missing for two hours was Max, our English Pointer; the most mischievous young dog on the planet.

“There you are!” I couldn’t scold him, he’d come straight back for the first time ever. Previously I had collected him from a Dog’s Home, a person’s house and the family butcher where Max was found crunching through their best carcase of beef. It had cost me a fortune appeasing the butcher, but the new assistant Penny had been lovely to me and we had become good friends. I used to look forward to meeting her in the park with Buster, her cocker spaniel. Work had stopped that for a while, though we talked regularly on the phone.

We entered the vestibule of my house, the warmth greeting us like a comforting blanket. I closed the big red door behind us, the sound echoing on the black and white diamond tiles. I opened the next set of doors to the vast hall, the log fire between the twin staircases blasting out a wave of heat. In the absence of my Czech maid, I realised I’d banked it up rather too well. The dog ignored this stranger, shot forward and lay as close to the fire as he could, ready to roast on the hearth. I laughed at his predictable antics and then turned to look at Clarissa.

“Strip!” I said, taking command of the situation and the opportunity the over-sized fire presented. “There is no point you keeping those cold and wet things on.”

I avoided saying ‘dirty’ for fear of offending her.

“You sure?”

She seemed suddenly hesitant, clutching to her bosom that briefcase. This was a woman who had walked the catwalks of Europe and the Far East, shown her body regularly when wearing the most skimpy of dresses who was now questioning being naked. She read my mind for me.

“It’s different on the catwalk. Most of the men are queer, but what if your husband …?”

She trailed off. Did she know I had a husband or assumed it? For some reason I was struggling to admit I had one, but I had to reassure her.

“No problem, Jonathan is in Tokyo for a month. He is away a lot. I have a young maid, Anya, who is here to learn English, but she has gone back to Prague for a few days so I am alone. Take off your clothes. Get warm by the fire. I’ll go find you something to wear”

I turned to leave, but found myself rooted to the spot. It was like when at school, where often I had been watching and waiting for her to change for her shower. Now I was the observer again. She seemed to be struggling with the coat. Her bruises must have hindered her movement.

“Just stand there, let me do it,” I said, taking complete control again.

I unbuttoned the top-coat that somewhere under the dirt hid a definite Gucci design of last season. Perhaps her sudden demise was recent? It did smell faintly of piss, but not too much for me to handle and no more than when my children were in nappies. Underneath was a Versace dress with a very incongruous Pringle sweater on top. I pulled the jumper over her head very gently. The smell of sweat was nearly overpowering, yet the sweetness from her armpits strangely erotic. She seemed to be so devoid of the perfumes and potions that blots out our natural hormones and scents, so the real aroma of a woman was wafting over to me. I could hear her breathing, slightly breathless. Was I hurting her? Did she find this mildly erotic too?

I was trying to be as gentle as possible as I moved to unbutton the dress. It was a typical black number with the softest of silk, useless in the current temperature, and as each button released, so I tried to hide my horror at the amount of bruising on her neck and chest. She had no bra and I was soon looking at a perfectly rounded, still wonderfully pert, pair of breasts that belonged to the woman I had not seen this way since those shower days. Yet there was horror mixed with joy mixed with, well dare I say it? Her breasts were covered in marks that clearly represented where the drunken bully had landed his kicks. There were at least ten blue-black circles that lay close around her dark, pierced nipples. Was he really drunk? The marking was so deliberate, almost uniform. The piercings were large, heavy rings.

Her dress was now hanging around her waist as I inspected her front gaziantep escort and back, which other than her breasts and some on her arms, was clear.

“Let me strip you of the rest of this dress and then I can go get some witch-hazel to tend to those bruises while I also get a bath running.”

“Thank you,” she said, simply and kissed me on the neck as I leant forward to release the waistband on her dress and let it drift to the floor. I remembered that last kiss at school. A tremble passed through me. I struggled to keep a focus on my duties. She seemed to just accept that I was now in control. I felt I needed to reassure her that she was safe with me, though my body and subconscious clearly had other ideas about how to comfort her.

“No problem, it is so good to see you. I will….”

I was suddenly tongue-tied, just like all those years ago. It was good to see her but the reference to ‘seeing’ that popped into my head was sexual, seeing her naked, not just meeting each other. The kiss and the sight of her had had their effect. I could feel my panties beginning to become awash with my juices; something that had not happened to me in a very long time, least of all with my husband. How could this be? I was an avid, hetero pillar of the community. I told myself that my damp knickers were a coincidence.

“R-right, I better get the lotion and some clothes for you.”

I turned and ran up the stairs two steps at a time like a little schoolgirl. I was back at the Academy, chasing round for Clarissa! Yet something was different. There was another more controlling voice in the back of my mind.


When I came dancing down the stairs, again two at a time, carrying a silk robe and the ointment, I felt so happy, only to stop at the bottom and see Clarissa curled up naked and asleep on the rug, right next to Max. Her panties I could see burning away at the edge of the fire. She had clearly had no strength to throw them in properly. I gazed at her firm and perfectly rounded bottom.

“Jessica Harmondon-Smithers, what are you thinking?” I said aloud to no one in particular, except myself who was suddenly feeling hotter and hotter as I stared down at the beautiful nude form of my old school friend. I realised it was not the banked up fire that was creating the temperature. Primitive, long-suppressed desires flooded my body. I could smell my own scent wafting up from beneath my thick tweed skirt. I’d discarded my knickers, too damp to be comfortable. Yes, even my ‘dowager duchess wear’ as Johnnie called it could not hide my desires. Only my head kept trying to deny what Clarissa the catalyst had re-surfaced.

I knelt quietly beside her, reaching out to stroke her tousled hair. It was futile adjusting the straggling mess which held God knows what creatures, possibly even lice, but I was back at school in that instant offering her all the love of a doting young woman. I put the gown by her side and sat, waiting for something, I don’t know what, other than her awakening. I imagined her turning to me, reaching for my face and pulling it to her with both hands. In my romantic and lustful state, her dirty body did not exist. She was the embodiment of beauty that topped her class, won the modelling contracts and went on to be a famous celebrity.

She moaned, a little pain expressed, but did not wake as she turned on her back. I could see the bruises, noting faint stripes too that were visible on her belly and down to her pubis and inner thighs. What had someone done to her? It was then I looked again at the dramatic statement of the rings through her nipples, something I had always wanted but never had the courage to do. What was so strange was that when inspecting for the marks I had failed to register the significance of these adornments. It was as if my brain had accepted them. And when I looked down again just as her thighs parted in her sleep, so I saw the six gold rings in her labia (three each side) and the bar across her clitoris that was now large, engorged or naturally that way (I had no recollection). It seemed perfectly reasonable to reach out and gently, then more vigorously, play with the bar and rings using the tips of my fingers. She moaned again and I shot my hand back as if I’d touched fire.

Fire seemed to be everywhere. My hand was hot and appeared disconnected from me. It had been somewhere forbidden, somewhere I had not had permission to go. It was a sinful hand and I had an intense desire to wash it, but instead brought the sinning digits to my mouth and licked each one ever so slowly. I could smell a light mix of a woman’s juices and piss from days of being unwashed, but still I licked each one clean. And this created an almost unquenchable fire in my cunt or ‘yoni’ as I remember her telling me once. Also, the heat from the fire seemed to burn my skin, until I realised it was the singeing fur of Max who had foolishly got too close. When did dogs ever learn? I pulled him backwards giresun escort and he woke with a yelp and then a series of barks. He was barking at the flames as if it was their fault.

Clarissa woke suddenly, a product perhaps of learning to do so when sleeping rough on benches and under railway arches, always sensing danger. She smiled at me. More fire raged. I felt the flames licking around my labia. I was struggling to control deeply suppressed desires. I was that dormant volcano on a Pacific atoll that just needed an underground test nearby to upset the equilibrium. Everyone had run for their lives and I was now alone, feeling the seismic pulses. I had to move, to act, to do something.

“Come with me now,” I blurted out, no pleasantry in the tone. “I have a bath running upstairs, some toiletries for you and a nice warm bed.”

“Yes Mistress,” she said, in all seriousness, slowly and painfully getting to her feet. Wow, again the flames burned around my thighs.

“Oh, no, no, I’m not your Mistress. Sorry, I was just overzealous in wanting you to get up and cleaned before sleep loses you to me for a while…” Oh, what was I saying? I was starting to apologise and bluster over my words like a teenager caught out. “I mean I did not intend to be so commanding.”

“Pity,” she said simply. “A great pity.”


What was she telling me? Did she want me to be commanding? She didn’t want me to be a dormouse, like I’d become with Jonathan? Ok, anything to please her.

“Come on then, up those stairs and get cleaned up.”

“Yes mistress!” she said, smiling and lowering her head slightly. I quite liked this new, commanding me. Could it ever last though? I doubted it. I had only done it with the children, in my job where I was top dog and sometimes in play with Johnnie when we were newly weds. I remembered with a sense of loss how he had loved me so much then, how he’d bring me flowers and bathe me, and yes, how subservient he had been and yet, so aroused, his manhood seeming to never be anything but vertical! I giggled.

“What is making you laugh my Mistress?”

What was she doing? She was still calling me Mistress!

“I was thinking of my husband and our early marriage together. We had such incredible fun, with a capital ‘F’. Doesn’t life knock the spots off you?”

“With respect Mistress Jessica, it is we who rub those spots off, telling ourselves we have to stop doing those things because we have family or we are too old, or we have too many work responsibilities. We make our own dungeon where we then lay and fester.”

“Clarissa, why do you keep calling me Mistress?” I asked, more than a little intrigued now.

I was bending to the marble bath, a huge one that we had installed so that Johnnie and I could bathe together and then when the children came along with them. In fact, one of them was birthed in that tub. The back of my hand tested the temperature.

“Perfect,” I said, to no one in particular.

“I knew it would be Mistress. It always was with you and I’m sure it always will be so.”

Clarissa was smiling at me. Her legs were parted as she stood by the bath. How beautiful she looked, the jewellery adorning her most intimate places seemed perfect. Yet now something had changed. I no longer wanted to dash over and bury myself in her breasts and cunt; I wanted her to come to me. Worse, or was it better, I wanted her to worship me.

I sensed the electricity in the air. It was hot and humid in the room, like in the hours before a heavy storm. Her head was down, as if unable to look me in the eyes. She still had not answered my question but I did not care any more.

“Get in the bath, now.”

Was that really my voice being so commanding?

She walked in, down the white marble steps, and then squatted with all the grace of the model she was. There was the sound of the water parting and lapping at the sides, but no other noises. A silence hung in the air. I sensed that it would only end if I made it end.

“Clarissa, tell me how you came to be a bag lady in the park. Leave nothing out.”

There I went again, commanding.

I stripped off my clothes, without a hint of ceremony or even a thought as to whether Clarissa wanted me in the bath with her.

I picked up the overhead shower nozzle and again without asking sent shots of warm water over her matted scalp.

“Carry on,” I ordered, ignoring the squirming that reminded me of when my now 18 year old daughter was five and had her hair washed.


The tale was a long one and I have to admit I was at first shocked, in the way a mother often is as the amnesia of the years makes her forget her own strong sexual and individual identity when tending first to a husband and then her bairns. Here was a woman who had never married, had a long career but somewhere along the way had followed her most base instincts to become who she was now.

So as shock turned to recall of my own adventurous spirit and then to envy of her experimental and daring life, I listened enraptured by the tales that took us all over the globe, into the strangest settings and the most exotic locations. I wondered if there was anything this woman had not tried.

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