Mistress Domination: The World is Naughty Enough

By Shawna Hunter

Kate and Penelope have come to accept the power of emotion. Their lust, their denial, their love for one another have all pushed them to new and bewildering heights But after Andre, after what the world saw, things have changed. Now they are reluctant agents of the U.S. Government, now they are learning how not alone they really are, and now com

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kingston Publishing Company
• Release date: Dec 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9781645334781

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Copyright

Mistress Domination – The World in Naughty Enough 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 DOMINATION – THE WORLD IS NAUGHTY ENOUGH:

A NOVEL

Copyright © 2023 by Shawna Hunter

All rights reserved.

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Published by Kingston Publishing Company

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Table of Contents

Copyright

Table of Contents

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Extras

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

1

Christine

Memories and Nightmares

I know this isn’t a dream, isn’t a nightmare. I’m asleep, I have to be asleep, but I’m not dreaming. No, this is a memory. A memory of my time spent as Chrissy the big-titted bimbo. I can still feel the puffy lips, my breasts in that absurd tube top pushed up so high that I can’t see the rest of my body. I’m bouncing, giggling. They loved to watch me bounce. The men, the sick bastards who should have been helping me. Instead, they enjoyed slapping me around as I giggled. A little breast bondage, a game of ring toss using a stick shoved up my ass. They’d fuck me like some cheap doll and I’d thank them for it, I’d even egg them on. I’m not a virgin anymore, not in any of my entrances, and I never so much as had a say in the matter.

The feel of their cocks intruding on me, it’s enough to wake me. I know I’m tossing, turning, saying all the no’s that Chrissy could never voice. She wanted it, not me. The worst part, the part that makes me sick to my stomach, was how much she liked it. Dumbed down as I was, numbed to the pain as I was, all I could think about was how fun being the center of attention had been. How happy it made me to be cum all over. I thanked them for treating me like that. The words actually came out of my mouth, even if the real me could never have meant them. There’s a line, a distinction I have to remember. Christine, not Chrissy…never Chrissy. It’s the part that always wakes me, the little mantra which breaks the spell of these dreams. We are not the same, she was just something done to me.

My eyes burst open, then close again when I feel the sting. I’m drenched in sweat of course, I always am. Sure, it’s winter but my heat is off. The six comforters, two sheets and double layer of pyjamas I wear would make turning the heat on a suicidal gesture. My neighbors, however, everyone in the apartment complex except me has their heat on. They, of course, don’t know how I sleep. There’s no use in asking them to endure discomfort on my account. The idea of feeling exposed again, I just can’t take it, so I sweat it out alone. I’m told that many of the other women in the support group do this as well. Some suggest finding a place with other survivors, where we can make room for the practicalities of each other’s coping mechanisms. I can’t do that, however. Being with the other survivors at the meetings is hard enough. Hearing how they cry at night? It would drag me back down that pit myself.

It has been four months since Andre. Mistress Domination and Princess Prude, Kate and Penelope, are still giving depositions. The world is...still turning I’m told, but not for me. The weight, it takes a few minutes to kick myself free. I need to splash some water on my face and see that I’m a redhead again. The washroom is only a few steps from my bed. Before the plague I was only a secretary. I didn’t make enough to afford more than this shoebox with its kitchenette, fridge in the living room, and toilet six feet from my bed. Not that I lived here back then, but my old place wasn’t much better. This place, at least, is free of the memories.

There are other positives as well, if you look at it from a certain point of view. At least I can use the sink while sitting. It faces the toilet with the tub width-wise to my left. The mirror is above it, too cheap to have a pill cabinet behind. My pills are kept on my nightstand, I really need to get better at remembering them. If I do it on schedule, they sometimes keep the dreams away. No time for that now, however. I need the mirror. There I am, Christine, the girl who Andre used as an example to prove his power to the higher ups at the firm. Red hair matted to the sticky sweat on my forehead, C-cup buried beneath layers of flannel. I cup my hands, feeling the almost-too-cold water. Then I drop it and collect a colder double handful. I need it to sting.

Christine, I say my name as my skin comes to life with the pin prick sensation, you're free. You’re you again. It’s… 

My therapist, Denise, insists on my telling myself that it’s over. As if the words will make it so. My friends, my sister, Denise, they all think I’m numb. Their theory is that I shut myself down emotionally to process the trauma of what they’d done to me...Andre and the others, but I can’t say those words. I can’t say them because it’s not over. It’ll never be over, I relive it every night and I feel something. Not hate, not anger, something else. Something cold.

Miss? The knock at the door pulls my attention. The hardwood floors are warped, cracked, they tell him that I’m coming so I don’t have to call out. 

Yes? I keep the chain on but I open the door a crack. I have to, the peephole is too caked with grime to see through. It’s the landlord, making a rare visit to my third floor landing. Perhaps that seems strange, but it is close to noon. Every night I try to stay up as long as possible, in the hopes of escaping the memories that come in my dreams. I fail, obviously, but it’s always worth a try. Even if it means an unusual sleep schedule.

Hey there, he smiles from the landing. My apartment is off the back stairwell of a four floor, red brick walk up. Normally my only visitor is a mouse that scurries around the landing at night. I call him whiskers. Tonight, it’s the last thing I ever want to see, a man, nothing to be alarmed about. Your rent is still being covered by the relief fund. That’s a joke. They should call it the please don't riot allowance. Every woman in the city will have her every essential bill paid for three years. Woopity freaking doo. I just wanted to let you know that I’ll have to shut the heat off today to work on the furnace. May get a little frosty. Sorry...though it doesn’t look like it’ll bother you.

I feel his eyes drag down my body. I can’t stand it, it’s why I moved out of my last place. The eyes of those who saw me as Chrissy were always on my body, wondering how it looked post restoration. This short man with his receding hairline and torn sweater. He looks down my body as if I were still a bimbo. Something burns behind my eyes as I watch him look at me like that. My skin itches, my stomach churns. I want to scream when his eyes meet the buttons of my outer flannel. I choke it back as best I can, but I still mumble under my breath, claw your eyes out you disgusting bastard.

He couldn’t have heard me, I’m not sure I even said it out loud. My tongue just moved around a breath. Yet the man backs up from my door, his eyes wide, his body trembling. I want to ask what spooked him, but his hands shoot up to his face before I can. Those yellow, unkempt fingernails meet the whites of his eyes and thick, syrupy blood spurts down his body as he screams. I should stop him. I should call 9-1-1. I know that...but I can’t stop laughing. The sight of it doesn’t quite process in my mind. At first, I think it’s some prank. Even the blood, something in me wants to believe it’s fake somehow. As if he knew what I’d say, as if he’d been waiting for it. My sides ache, even as he falls down the stairs. There’s a sickening crash and thud. My neighbor below me comes out to see what’s happening. Her scream stops my laughter.

Oh my god he’s dead! She shrieks as she checks on him. The poor woman is in her late sixties. I’m told that Andre had an age limit on his bimbos. Not a limit to his powers, mind you, more a preference. He didn’t think old women were worth his time.

The thought drags me back to last week’s meeting. Some of the girls were musing about disfiguring themselves, to protect against future Andres. Others were talking them out of that, claiming Andre’s powers could reverse disfigurements, so it would be a foolish and dangerous endeavor. The only protection a woman had was growing old. Most of the girls latched onto that, deciding that they’d live like hermits, away from men until they were too old to be lusted after. It’s funny, I’ve spent most of my life worrying about growing old. Now, I look at the woman shrieking in the stairwell, and I envy her age. Even as she collapses in shock at the state of the now-former landlord.

The sight finally clicks me back to the here and now. The old woman has collapsed over the bleeding landlord. I struggle with the chain on my door, it’s warped by years of being lazily painted over. By the time I get it off, she’s gone and he’s bleeding out. A heart attack, I guess, the strain of the sight too much for her. It doesn’t keep me from envying her, as I finally get around to calling for help. Who’s to say the next Andre won’t be more liberal in his victim selection? Who’s to say that age will be a deterrent? Something else needs to be done. Something to stop the next Andre before he rises. It’s all I can think about as I watch the landlord’s life bleed away from his destroyed eye sockets. The call to 9-1-1 barely registers, it’s a formality really. There’s no one left here to save.

2

Kate

Caged Heat

Hello again, audience I’m not supposed to be aware of. Let’s be sneaky this time and pretend this is an internal monologue, okay? Welcome to Mistress Domination’s take on prison. Well, involuntary detainment is what they’re officially calling it. Turns out, public outcry was too great to officially refer to me as a criminal. I have to say, I’m not the ideal guest of the penal system. For one thing, I got to choose my cellmates. Penelope, Sandra, and Kitty all share this four bunk cell with me. There was little choice in that. Every time they tried to separate us a sex doll would unlock the cell doors, or they’d simply vanish. Penelope really doesn’t like to sleep anywhere, but in my arms and, well, sleep wasn’t what I kept dragging her into my cell for.

Our shared cell is pretty easy to find as well. It’s the one with the geisha decor and privacy screens. The one with the steam rising from the barred window. Oh, don’t worry, it really is just steam. The prison’s heater isn’t very good, and the cement walls transfer the cold. To deal with it, I’ve kind of, sort of manifested a makeshift steam room for the four of us. Saunas are sexy, female forms glistening in the steam? Delicious. The guards are pissed of course, the other prisoners? More so. The girls and I? Well, with nothing but a couple of towels to protect one another’s modesty the only complaint has been about my inability to manifest Mojitos. The warden? Well, she really doesn’t like it, not sure anger is the right word though. More like, outrage? Oh, not the warden you’re thinking of, by the way, he’s three stories up in the men’s ward. The new warden is a woman named Teresa from Boston. She doesn’t really care about our sapphic exploits or our flouting of the rules, so long as no one finds out about them. That’s the game with her, PR. What happens in prison stays in prison, as she very much hates me saying.

Kate, I can see her hands on her hip even in silhouette thanks to the privacy shade.

Yes, boss? I chirp, Kitty laughs.

The media is asking about the steam. Mind finding another way to keep warm? I unmanifest the privacy screen to smile at her. Teresa is fun, not quite the prude Penelope was once upon a time, but certainly no fan of the female form.

I do have other ideas, I bat my eyelashes at her, but you’ll have to promise to turn the security cameras off.

Stick to the steam, she huffs, but for God’s sake tone it down. We can’t be seen as playing favorites.

Oh, I chuckle as I point Penelope to the window. It’s so cute the way her butt peaks out from under the towel, I wish you’d have told me that earlier.

Kate, Penelope turns, you’re going to get her in trouble.

Oh for fuck’s sake, Teresa pulls out her cellphone, tower, what has she done now?

Teresa’s eyes bulge as she listens. Kitty and Sandra add their tight little tushies to my view as they take a peek. Outside, over my cell, I’ve manifested a nice big stripper-style neon sign reading Warden’s favorite cell. Needless to say, it has made the news. I hear the all-too-familiar code word for deactivating the camera to my cell a moment before I hear the lock click. Teresa is stepping in. What can I do but sit up straight, put my arms out along the backrest of my manifested bench, and cross my long, well-tended-to legs. She stomps over, not an ugly woman by any means, and so cute when she’s all flustered. She wants to slap me, I know it. In her shoes, I’d have me over her knee with the heaviest paddle available.

You got a lot of nerve, she points at me. It’s a brave act. She and I have long since come to an arrangement. None of my manifestations touch her, if she doesn’t touch me or the other girls. Even a fingertip, however, and all bets are off. Kitty, especially, wants to see how Teresa’s attitude would shift after a couple of hours on a sybian.

I know, I shrug, shall I manifest steam rooms for the rest of the prisoners?

No, she growls, you should get rid of the billboard and at least try and pretend like you’re being punished.

I’m not being punished, it’s a smug little quip, I’m being protected. At least until my depositions are done. The next zoom meeting with the senate is tomorrow, right?

You think charming a bunch of senators gives you the right to turn my prison into a day spa? Her hand is shaking, she’s fighting her urge to grab me by the towel.

Considering what this place used to be… Kitty chimes in.

You shut your mouth convict, Teresa’s finger moves away, I can still throw you in solitary.

Try it, Sandra has been rather protective of Kitty. Now, she walks to within a hair of Teresa’s finger and stares the other woman down, come on Warden, just one little step forward.

Teresa’s eyes narrow. I’ve already got the full Monty of favorites ready for her. Nipple and clit clamps, collar, butt plug, ball gag, Hitachi wand. If she takes the bait my golden scissors will have her naked and ready for decorating before Sandra even registers the touch. The warden knows that. To her credit, she composes herself and steps back from the brink.

I’ll see about having more blankets brought in for the prisoners, she sighs, and add hot soup to the menu. Okay? Will that do for your sense of justice? There’s defeat in her eyes as she looks across the cell to me.

For now, I shrug. Penelope and Kitty pout as the sign vanishes, but if you really want to get on my good side, I open my towel, you’ll join us for a steam before you go.

I’ll pass, Teresa’s shoulders are stiff as stone as she turns.

All the more for me, Penelope rushes into my arms.

Tone it down a little, Teresa pleads, the media will want to question you about the sign.

We can get a lot done in twenty, I begin.

Forty, Penelope slides down to her knees before me.

Thirty minutes, I run my finger’s through P’s hair as I smile at Teresa, can you buy us that much time?

I suppose, she has to run her tongue over her mouth before saying it.

Thanks Teresa, I giggle as P runs her hands over my steamed body.

Degenerate slut, the door opens for Teresa, but I’m too distracted to pay attention, you should show more respect for your neighbors.

The warden is off, marching down the hall. I don’t know what her problem is. We have no neighbors for two cells in every direction or directly above. Just so none of the other prisoners see how good we have it. Maybe she means Kitty and Sandra but…let’s just say that they aren’t paying attention. Sandra has really gotten into ignoring her surroundings by swapping spit with the former cat burglar. The two of them make out almost as often as Penelope and I. Quite the cute little prison romance, considering that Sandra insists she’s straight.

One of these days, Penelope whispers to me, Teresa is going to punch you square in the nose.

Speaking of noses, I am very sweaty, you’re okay down there?

What? She smiles at me, oh the sweat? It’s not there.

I feel dry for all of three seconds before Penelope’s tongue sets to work. Her power to vanish things from existence has been growing ever more precise with practice. Pretty soon, she’ll be able to give me a professional grade bikini wax. She’s already been practicing on my legs. She’s been begging me to try elsewhere, P likes to remove all obstructions. Not that I’m complaining. With Sandra and Kitty to watch, and P between my thighs, I can’t think of a damn thing to complain about. Except, perhaps, the time restraints.

****

These damn senate hearings. Every few days I have to leave my little cell, dress up all fancy, and sit in front of a computer screen for all the world to gawk at. The senate has been…a test of patience. Establishing the facts of my powers, my activities, and events with Andre should have only taken a few meetings but half the senators insist on interrupting, mostly with religious rhetoric or morality lectures. They’re lucky my powers don’t work over a zoom call. In person I’d have had that damn Texan gagged and bound within the first hour. The majority have slowly come around, and the court of public opinion has no doubt that I was in the right about Andre, but the hearings drag on. Penelope thinks it’s because they don’t know what to do with me. I think they just like getting to hear me tease them.

Off the record, my court-appointed lawyer is a nervous man who looks like he was born in a suit. Wire-frame glasses, scrawny neck, narrow frame. He’s the shifty sort that I just know would call me mommy if I so much as manifested a riding crop in front of him, there are rumors that the senate is close to a decision. They can’t let you loose, but they need to convict you of something, or your imprisonment will start to chaff against human rights. My sources say they might offer you…community service.

Oh, his information is the only useful thing about him, but it is fun to make that giant Adam’s apple of his bob, what sort of community service? I doubt they want me picking up cans or cracking rocks.

Remember the senator from Alabama who kept asking you and Sandra about your helicopter fight? He lowers his glasses in an attempt to give me a cocky look.

The one who kept his eyes on my tits? I huff, what about him?

He’s on the senate sub-committee for defense, the lawyer pauses to let it sink in.

They want me to join the army? If he’d been considerate enough to offer me water, I’d have done a spit take.

The Department of Defense. Sandra has already done two years of service with the national guard, he checks his notes, so she’d be reactivated and transferred. You, Andrea Weber and Penelope would be… he pauses, scanning the notes.

Does someone need some motivation? I glare at him, read out loud or hand me the papers little man.

"I don’t really know what