Mistress Domination: The Rise of Princess Prude

By Shawna Hunter

Kate and Penelope seem like your average odd couple roommates. Kate is an ad-posting coder, who's a little too free spirited. Penelope is an uptight Christian blogger, out to stem the tide of depravity infesting their city. Not much to see here, until you catch Kate sneaking out at night.

As Mistress Domination, Kate may be the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kingston Publishing Company
• Release date: Jan 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781645334750

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Copyright

Mistress Domination: The Rise of Princess Prude is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

MISTRESS DOMINTATION THE RISE OF PRINCESS PRUDE: A NOVEL

Copyright © 2022 by Shawna Hunter

All rights reserved.

Editing by Pure Grammar Editorial Services

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Cover Design by KP Designs

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Published by Kingston Publishing Company

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Table of Contents

Copyright

Table of Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

Epilogue

Extras

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

1

Kate

Tall Daddy and Shorty

Well, hello there. Oh right, I’m not supposed to know about you. Breaking the fourth wall is cliché and all that. Anyway, my nom de guerre is Mistress Domination. No, I’m not a prostitute. Nor am I some slap and a tickle, for a dime and a nickel, dominatrix. I mean, sure, I dress like one, but so do most super-heroines. Or is it the other way around? Well, either way, if this were a comic you’d currently be staring around my shapely ass, in a rain-soaked back alley. The next panel would zip around my black booty-shorts, past my stylish silver belt, and linger on how my boobs are squeezed up and out by my corset. Finally, I’d speak, and you’d see my masked face, bordered by my silky black hair, perfect despite the rain. I’d probably look, to your eye, like a certain DC property who also has a penchant for tying men up—if she went through a goth period. A kidnapper called me that once. Later, he only called me Mommy.

Let me explain. I am no godly champion, like the aforementioned super-heroine, nor am I an alien, nor a billionaire. No radioactive whats-its bit me, and so far as I know, I’m not a mutant. I think—and it really is just my best guess—that I am some form of psychic. No, not mind reading or mind control. I sometimes wish I could do those things, but I got something stranger. After a lot of googling, I realized that it’s a form of manifestation…but it doesn’t come out of a ring, or stick to a single, silly looking color.

Perhaps it’s best if I show you, hmm? I mean, it is a rain-soaked back alley at the opening of a super-heroine story. I can almost guarantee that there will be some poor girl getting purse-napped (and nothing else… despite the implications) down there. Or at least a graffiti artist. Hey, don’t judge, I do minor crime too. It’s not that bad really, after-all, I do employ a rather non-violent crime fighting approach. Ruin these gorgeous hands with bloody knuckles? That’s as likely as a guy with condiment guns being taken seriously as a villain. Oh right, that also happened in the comic books. Weird genre. Anyway, Mistress Domination is a mind-over-matter super-heroine. Well, I suppose it’s more accurate to say that my mind becomes matter, but it keeps the costume clean. Can you imagine the dry-cleaning bill? That is, if this outfit ever needed to be dry cleaned, but more on that later.

The alley itself is generally unpleasant, with just the slightest air of history to it. Classic brick stained black by years of soot and rain. The walls to either side loom overhead, broken up now and again by pipes or landings that might once have been fire escapes. There were windows at one point, long since boarded up. A dumpster, overflowing. A rat, quite well fed and not too eager to scurry away. You’d swear that there was a roof above, if not for the rain trickling down. This is one of those secret places. Part of the city, but distinct from it. A place surrounded by law that still exists in a state of nature. The strong prey on the weak here. They hunt them, kill them… or worse. Some poor souls even call this place home. Personally? I’d become an actual prostitute before I’d let that happen. This is the sort of home where people can hear you scream, but no one will come to help you. At least, that’s how it is on most nights. Tonight, however, I’m here. Call me what you like, but I will help you if you scream… and I didn’t cause that scream.

Well look at this, the tone tells me everything about the guy. Stubble, bad teeth, hunched posture. I’m not sure if I can smell the alcohol, or if I’m just so sure it’s there that my mind fills in the blanks. In any case, he’s not speaking to me. Why would he? I’m not a person in his eyes, just an object.

Hey sweetie, it’s not Halloween you know, the other guy has the deeper voice. Combined with the lame comment, it’s clear he’s the big, strong, and dumb type. Gotta love a classic pairing. Twisted brains and meaty brawn, closing in on little-old me. Well, at six feet tall before the heels, and only twenty-five, I have to say that in a southern accent… but you get the point.

What brings you down our alley dressed like that? The smaller of the two men steps out of the shadows. A thick coat and a filthy sweatshirt; sweatpants under his worn blue jeans. Dressing in layers, carrying all he owns. He may be a goon, but he’s also a victim. This city chews some up and spits them out. Men, all too often, and with nowhere else to turn, they fall back on the primal laws of muscle and violence.

You won’t find many customers down here, the second man seems almost sad. His thick beard and full-length coat pair with a toque I’d swear was made by hand. He gives off the vibe of a father, or someone who used to be a father. I’ve no doubt that there’s a child’s picture in one of those pockets. Whether dead or simply dead to him, who knows? All I’m sure about, is that these are not real villains.

This used to be a cake shop, I glance to the wall to my left, and the other side used to sell shoes. Now, I think, they’re both cannabis retailers, right?

It’s 2 am sweetness, the smaller man moves to flank me, it doesn’t matter what these places are in the daylight.

Yes, it does, I fire back, if they still sold cake and shoes, what I’m about to do to you might seem strange. Potheads, however, are used to dreaming up strange shit. 

You planning to get freaky with us? the larger man asks. He’s watching his friend for the cue. Reluctant, but resigned.

I’m not carrying a purse or a wallet. You’ve both been staring at my tits long enough to know I don’t have a roll of bills. I have nothing for you to steal, unless you think this outfit will fit? I know what they’re planning, I’ve put myself in this situation more than enough times. Still, I like to give them the option. A few even have the moral sense to back down. Most, however, need to be taught a lesson about how it feels to have your consent ignored.

You’ve got plenty worth taking, the shorter man tells me. The way he rubs his hands together, makes me roll my eyes. With a shower and some decent grooming, Tall Daddy might be worth a try. Shorty? Well, it’s clear that he wouldn’t know what to do with a woman, even if she were willing. Oh yeah, I should mention my habit of assigning nicknames to people. It’s mostly something I do in my own head, but sometimes I say it out loud. Don’t judge me, it’s a quirk. I guess I just feel that everyone should get a superhero name; they’re fun.

Please tell me that I’m the first woman to come down this alley in quite a while. My casual tone should be a warning. I’m not armed, so far as they can tell, so I should be frightened. Yet, my only concern is ensuring that they haven’t done this to others. That should be a red flag, but of course, it isn’t. Someday I’d like to find goons that take the hint. 

We very rarely see visitors, Tall Daddy tells me. But when we do, they always pay the toll.

You know the old saying? Shorty asks me, gas, grass or… His hand doesn’t make it half the distance to my ass before the cuff catches it—emerging from the wall behind him and shooting out, chain in tow. The other hand is snatched back just as quickly. The chains weren’t there a second ago. They didn’t even exist. Still, they exist now, and they are unbreakable. Shorty screams as he’s pulled against the wall. His arms are held wide apart as he kicks uselessly into the open air between us. Tall Daddy has a look of shock on his face. What he’s seeing should be impossible, and he knows it.

How many tolls have you collected? I ask him.

I… I… the panic fades as I watch him, melting into shame, too many.

Why? I ask, knowing that he probably doesn’t know.

They took my job, my daughter, my reason to live. All I got left is hurting people. You… you’re here to do somethin’ about that, aren’t you?

Don’t be an idiot, Shorty cries, she’s just some witch or… The gag seals over his mouth, so tight that it permits only mumbles. A leather handprint covers his lips and is strapped around his head. Necessary? Maybe not, but cathartic. Manifesting things out of thin air has gotten me called a witch far too many times. Frankly, it’s annoying.

Shush, I wink at him.

Are you an angel or a devil? Tall Daddy asks me.

I don’t know, I shrug, but I punish bad people… and you’ve been very bad.

I know, he doesn’t fight the accusation. I can hear the bile in his throat, the disgust with himself. I pity him, I do, but I pity those girls who’ve come down here before me even more.

Put your hands to either side of your friend’s head, I tell him. His eyes hit the floor. He obeys me, like a man who thinks the door to Hell itself will appear in that wall next. I’ve seen those movies too, but I’m not that mean. Cuffs trap his hands, but they aren’t spiked, and they don’t drag him into some glowing door. There is no chiming bell sounding in the distance, just the rain and his friend’s muffled curses.

There is no reason for me to get close to him, none at all. Sure, I want his pants down, but a pair of hooks can do that for me. Sure, some might think of hands or something, but I can’t do hands. Not real ones anyway, doll hands maybe. My limitation, and one a lot of people have quickly figured out, is sex toys. Fetish stuff counts, those weirdos have given me a lot of variety, but it must be an object, and it has to be sexual. The paddle that appears next is a perfect example. In some kitchens, it would be a cutting board, but it levitates here for an entirely different purpose. Shorty’s eyes widen. Tall Daddy’s head is just far enough away for Shorty to see the paddle behind the taller man. Daddy doesn’t get the warning. He doesn’t know the paddle is there until it begins walloping his backside.

You could have been protecting the people who stumble down this alley, I tell them. You could have found some quiet pride in your lives, and built from there. Instead, you’ve just been dragging others down with you. Now think about what you’ve done.

Please, how many times have I heard that word?

What did you tell the women who pleaded with you? I have my back to him as I ask.

We deserve this, he growls, I know that. I just… don’t make me look at him.

Mmm, mmm, the gagged man cries, as he feels his partner’s cock hardening against his thigh.

He’s your victim tonight. Eye clamps are one of those obscure fetish items. Most wouldn’t think of them as sexual, so my ability to summon them comes as a surprise. Like that scene from Clockwork Orange, he’s forced to look right into the face of his partner as the paddle continues its drum beat on his ass.

I leave them like that. The chains holding, the paddle walloping, as they stare into one another’s eyes. The manifestations will remain as long as I want them to. Some, like the eye clamps, I create with a time limit. They disappear after a certain point. Others still exist, even after years. As real as if they’d come from the corner sex shop. Maybe I missed my calling in that, I could have opened a store… but how would I explain my unlimited supply to the IRS? Oh, the practicalities of life. I guess when you’ve got superpowers, you’re stuck with the back alleys and secrets. Maybe not, but I’d have to meet someone else with powers to find out. For now, there’s just me and my heels, echoing down the storm-soaked alley.

The paddle sounds don’t reach the street when I do. Some acoustic tick of the architecture I guess, or maybe the rain? Well, either way, someone will find those two… eventually. My costume vanishes when I’m out of sight of my latest victims, but before anyone else might see. Back to street clothes and my civilian face. Hi, I’m Kate, nice to meet you. Probably best not to look behind me. I bet Tall Daddy will have cum on Shorty by sunrise, but I won’t be here to find out. The night is young, and there are a lot of back alleys in this city. A lot of chances to put my powers to use, punishing those who deserve it. Am I an angel or a devil? How many times have I asked myself that same question? Does it matter? I mean really? So long as the next young woman who walks down that alley has nothing more to fear than a lazy rat. My cellphone buzzes, my roommate is wondering when I’ll be home. I suppose it is pretty late, but I’m not done yet. That little encounter just didn’t satisfy my need to punish. So, on with the hunt.

2

Penelope

The Next Young Woman

This world is corrupt. There’s no two ways about it. Evil—it’s everywhere I look. Fornicators, degenerates, homosexuals, and the left-handed. Recently, this sick city even legalized Marijuana. That stinking weed that makes people act like idiots. Some say it has medicinal benefits, but we all know that’s hogwash. They like it because it’s an indulgence in sin, pure and simple. So naturally, as one of the few good people left in this rotten burg, I’ve got to combat this new scourge. You’d think I’d have lots of help on that front, but no. The politicians are the most corrupt of all, and the police here just defend the perverted! All I’ve got is the small activist group I’ve formed through my church, my blog, and my best friend Kate. Oh Kate, how am I going to tell you about this latest debauchery?

Two dispensaries have recently opened their doors in the downtown core. I am headed there, bright and early, to get the names of the owners and operators. It is public information and my readers have a right to know who’s spreading this latest evil in our city. The thing is, that’s not enough. To really direct public outrage, you need personal details. Not just legal names, but faces, and whatever pitiful excuses they might try and muster. Sure it’s harsh. I’ve been known to go overboard and leak home addresses, employers, and the like, but I stop at children. No matter how evil someone may be, they don’t deserve to have protesters at their kid’s school. Their depraved business on the other hand? If all goes according to plan, I’ll have protesters here by noon.

Plans – sometimes I wish my plans actually panned out. They used to all the time, that’s how I ended up the leader of my little group. Now, things are different. Now she, the most depraved of she’s, has been inflicted on our city. My plans change very quickly whenever she rears her presumably ugly head. The pot shops I’ve come to confront are already surrounded, but not by protesters. These are just the early risers of this neighborhood, and I don’t have to get too close before I realize that she’s been here. Mistress Domination, the living embodiment of this city’s sin.

Shouts of laughter rise from a crowd of gawking morons, some already stoned. They are all congregated within and around the small alley between the shops. At first, it’s all I am aware of, but that changes. As I move closer, I hear the steady smacks, and I steel myself. The crowd is counting with the smacks, cheering on whatever nightmare they’re watching. How many times have I come across one of these scenes? The humiliated victims, the idiots taking pictures on their cellphones. It has all the classic warning signs of a Mistress Domination tableaux.

The sickening sight greets me after I push my way through the last of the stinking masses. How could anyone find this funny? Two poor souls, homeless vagabonds in need of some intense prayer, chained to a wall. One is weeping. His bruised bottom has been assailed by something – something which vanishes as I arrive. Whatever it was, it didn’t break the skin, but it must have hurt. Although, pain wasn’t its only result. The taller man has humiliated himself all over the shorter. Some of the people in the crowd jeer at them, calling them muggers and accusing them of far more serious crimes. If what they yell is true, then I’m glad they weren’t loose when I arrived. Still, I didn’t need to see this. The chains, the gag, the cuffs. They can’t be real; they’re emerging out of a solid wall with no bolts or holders. Yet they hold, nonetheless.

Why does no one ever question the impossibility of these things? I speak out loud, not expecting an answer, but I get one.

What’s to explain? It’s the work of a superhero. She gave these bastards exactly what they deserved, serves them right. The woman to my right wears a marijuana leaf on a t-shirt that exposes too much of her stomach. She looks like a sinful little tramp, and I don’t bother responding to her.

A superhero, can you believe it? People actually think this perverted witch is a hero, of all things. Sure, I admit, I once hoped that would be the case. When she’d first appeared, I thought the Lord had answered our prayers for a savior. What a gullible fool I’d been. What we’d actually been cursed with, was a witch. A horrible degenerate who went around creating these perverted scenes in our city. This was tame by her standards. At least it wasn’t a vegan purse snatcher mummified in plastic like a piece of meat. Or a car thief, driven around town on a motorized butt plug unicycle. No, at least this was in an alley, where the innocent couldn’t see. Not that the others ever happened during the day, but things could happen.

The police are here, of course. They always like to document Mistress D’s exploits. Document and do nothing. Not that they would. Maybe they fear her powers; maybe they like that she tends to leave criminals tied up for them. Neither option paints them in a positive light so far as I’m concerned. In the best case, they’re stupid. In the worst, they’re lazy. Where are the true crusaders when you need them? What I do know, is that asking them to act is useless. All I can do is pray.

Falling to my knees in this disgusting alley isn’t what I want to do, but it’s what is needed. Kneeling in prayer. The same prayer, every time. The one that always makes the horrible images go away. Not real, not real. I mumble it in my mind, over and over again, not real. Please God, let them see that it is not real. The revulsion, the sick twist in my stomach that fills me with energy every time I see something like this, I open myself to it. Soon enough, the cuffs start to fade. The men stumble free, and the police help them into a waiting car… for their statements. No one seems to realize that it had been me who helped. No one seems to care. Even when I tell them that it’s prayer that makes the objects vanish, they disagree. They argue that Mistress D’s creations always go away in time, whether I’m there or not.

With the show over, the crowd returns to buying their sinful smokes. Some go to their homes, or continue with their day, but it’s all the same. None of them show any sign of the revulsion they should at having seen sin. It’s not a surprise, sadly. To let a shop like that operate in your neighborhood is exactly the same as shopping there yourself. If you aren’t protesting evil, you’re participating. There’s no wonder that such people could shrug off yet another evil among them. They’re already lost.

I, however, don’t just go on with my day. As a righteous being, there’s no way I can just turn my back on what happened here. I stay in the alley. She was here. Mistress D. My comment section fills with arguments over whether she’s a hero or a villain whenever I write about her. The defenders irritate me, of course, but they drive traffic to my site and its message. This is especially true since I have been far more willing to document her exploits than most legitimate news sources. They have PG ratings to worry about, I don’t. Sometimes I do worry that I’m just spreading her fame, but how can I not? How can I remain silent