Work Text:
Peggy doesn’t need the money.
It certainly doesn’t hurt, of course. She’d tucked away a tidy sum for herself over the months, and every sneer and jibe from her so-called coworkers glossed a little smoother when she thought of the little nest egg incubating in her savings account.
It isn’t about money, but money is power and that, that is something Peggy can trade in.
Money is powerful enough when it’s offered for her services, and twice over when she can turn it down. Peggy never took a client she didn’t want, and sometimes she had to turn away the ones she wanted too badly, hair the wrong shade or eyes a bit too wide and cornflower sad for her comfort.
Weeks of careful searching and delicate inquiry had led her to Madame Laurence, a woman of vicious skill and infinite finesse. Peggy had watched her deliver a beating that would bring down a doughboy without unsetting a curl on her perfectly-coiffed head. She’d watched Peggy do the same to Madame Laurence’s own unflinching, wire-trim houseboy and hired Peggy on the spot. After an efficient negotiation of fees and an excellent recommendation for a discreet bootmaker, Peggy had found herself a Thursday evening fixture at the maison close of New York’s most respected dominatrix.
Peggy feels at home here.
Her months in New York had inclined her more to the cobbles and smoke-rich enticements of downtown, but Madame Laurence’s Upper West Side establishment is Peggy’s reprieve. Well-appointed with custom furniture and some ingeniously repurposed Victorian educational implements, intimidating without veering into garish, Peggy loves each room.
Sometimes it was a viciously-tailored suit, other nights a certain ruffle-hemmed dress that all the sissies seemed to adore. Tonight, Peggy is one ruler short of every wet-dream school marm lurking in the psyche universale of naughty boys everywhere – a spotless ruffled blouse buttoned up the back, twin lines of frilled lace spilling over the hardly-necessary exaggeration of her breasts, a black skirt cut so close it sighed when she sat down. Black leather gloves hug past her elbows, a gift from an admiring gentleman who sought only to sit at her feet and bear the occasional slap from them. And of course, her boots.
With several hours until one of her regulars shows up, Peggy is enjoying the latest issue of Harper’s when Simon politely shows his face. Simon’s life is willed to Madame Laurence, if not in letter than certainly in spirit and flesh. He has a lovely brand on his left buttock that Peggy has caught sight of during some of Madame Laurence’s demonstrations for the newer girls.
“Madame Peggy,” Simon says, with a deferential bow of his head. So well-trained.
“There’s a client here that Madame Laurence would like you to meet.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. A young lady, an occasional client of Mistress Sylvia’s.”
A young lady. Those were few and far between in a place like this, certainly from the paying end. Peggy folds the corner of the article on radical architecture she was reading and places it on the lacquered coffee table.
“Alright. Is the blue room free? Bring her in there.”
“I believe that’s her favorite room, Madame.”
Peggy’s shoes are decidedly not made for walking but they make the most delightful sound as she follows Simon down the hallway. The floors at Madame Laurence’s are always spotless.
Peggy has a small ritual before she goes into a session. It’s nothing much – a deep breath, a flex of her hands into fists, a straightening of her back. There’s so much power in posture. Peggy is always upright but this Peggy is rigid, stripped of the coddling softness demanded of her sex.
Her boots click as she walks into the blue room.
It’s an easy enough way to name the different rooms at Madame Laurence’s. Red, Black, White, Pink, Blue, each one keeping to a thematic zeitgeist – red for torture, black for bondage, white for the gentlemen who prefer their torments adorned with a nurse’s cap, pink for the frilled and blushing “girls” who get dolled up and talked down to. The blue room is Peggy’s favorite. Painted in a shade that can only be described as institutional, it’s lined with a set of jointed classroom desks beneath a chalkboard. A massive oak desk faces the door, while a discreet bench is tucked away in one corner.
Peggy’s favorite waitress is standing in front of the desk.
It takes a moment for Peggy’s mind to reel back from the sheer improbability of it. Goodness knows she’s spent enough time studying every delightful inch of Angela Martinelli. Here, in the flesh, is one of the starlets of Peggy’s self-pleasure cinema, her hands wrung nervously behind her back like a remorseful school child.
“Thank you, Simon, you can leave us.”
Peggy’s first instinct has always been to take charge. It rarely fails her.
“Oh,” Angie says, recognition blooming over her face. A fetching blush follows it, more delicate than the red of her cheeks when she’s carrying a tray of sandwiches and pop.
“Oh, gosh, it’s you, how?” Angie twists her hands, her a face a riot of panic over the delicate pointelle of her collar. She looks lovely in a pale pink dress with a full skirt, edged all over with white lace.
“Please don’t tell my boss!”
“Now why on earth would I do a thing like that?”
Peggy’s heels click as she crosses the room, her head high and her eyes fixed on Angie’s face. Peggy can read people, that’s her job. Angie is eyeing the exits but she’s also tracking Peggy’s mouth. She’s interested.
“You can leave if you’d like. We’ll never speak of this again.”
Of all the people from Peggy’s workaday life, Angie is perhaps the least mortifying option to turn up at Madame Laurence’s. If Peggy were possessed of any shame about her extracurricular pursuits, she’d be as bashful as Angie is now, wringing her hands and licking the faint strawberry stain off her lips.
“But I’d rather you stayed.”
Life has presented Peggy with opportunities, ones she has squandered, ones she has seized and ridden to victory, ones she will regret and ones she will cherish. If she has learned one thing, it is that fortune favors the bold.
“Tell me what you like, Angie.”
As many times as she’s imagined doing this, stroking her gloved fingers up Angie’s full cheek is infinitely more thrilling. Perhaps it’s the actress in Angie, but her soft gasp and the delicate sweep of her eyelashes is so expressive it makes Peggy shiver.
She’s beautiful.
Like most women, Angie’s fantasies are loose, archetypal things, not the tight scripts and bastardized psychodramas of men. Power. Discipline. A firm hand.
Peggy can oblige.
“Face the chalkboard.”
Angie’s hair is in the same barrel-curls she favors at work. She takes pride in her appearance, even when she’s doing something beneath her. Such an easy thing to exploit.
“Stand up straight.”
The leather-bound dictionary is heavy in Peggy’s hands. Surely it’s heavier for Angie she settles it on Angie’s head, pressing on her barrettes and teasing tension into her neck.
Peggy strides back to her desk as Angie remains stock still. A good girl.
“Good girls should have good posture. Walk to me.”
Peggy leans against the edge of the desk, giving her feet a break. Angie gets no such mercy, every luscious inch of her tense as she takes her first tentative steps to Peggy. As enticing as Angie’s beauty, her studied grace, and her lithe figure may be, it’s the look of determined, devoted concentration on her face that makes Peggy’s heart race.
Angie comes to stand before her, her book wobbling slightly but still maintaining its place.
“Very good.”
“Thank you,” Angie sighs, swaying on her feet as Peggy stares her down. She stands up, towering over Angie in her boots. Her grip on Angie’s ear will leave no marks, but it makes Angie yelp in the most delightful way.
“You will address me as Miss Peggy.”
Angie’s book clatters to the floor.
“Yes, oh, yes Miss Peggy.”
She marches Angie over to the upholstered bench at the far end of the room, her long strides forcing Angie to scramble after her.
“I can’t abide bad manners.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Peggy.”
Angie sucks her lip between her teeth as Peggy settles herself on the deep-seated bench. They both know what’s coming.
“Yes, you will be.”
This is not the first time Angie has settled across a woman’s lap. She ducks her head, adjusts her body easily as she tucks her knees onto the edge of the bench and lays her soft, warm weight over Peggy’s thighs.
The plain white cotton of her knickers is a shock to Peggy, inured as she is to intricate lingerie and dramatic bondage gear. She drags Angie’s skirt up around her hips and traces over the slim elastic at the tops of her thighs.
“You’re going to thank me, do you understand?”
Peggy rests her hand flat across the press of Angie’s thighs, letting warmth bleed into her palm.
“Yes, Miss Peggy.”
There’s an art to spanking. Angie’s body is a treasure trove of targets, soft places at the part of her thighs, the firm muscle of her rear, the precise point where her legs crease under the swell of her backside. Places that can take an endless barrage of flat-handed paddles and places that will bring Angie to tears with a few well-aimed swats. Peggy slides her hand over Angie’s smooth skin and marks them all.
She smacks Angie squarely on the full swell of her backside and smiles.
“Thank you, Miss Peggy.”
Angie thanks her for each one as Peggy beats her with an open hand, over and over until Angie’s backside is a shade to match her flushed cheeks and Peggy’s gloved hand is burning. She could float in this, the sensory overload of Angie’s ragged breathing and hiccupped pleasantries, the staccato rhythm of her hand making contact with blood-hot skin, the pulse of her own heart as Peggy’s own arousal grows.
Peggy draws her hand back, arching an eyebrow. She’s not the only one getting heated between her legs. Peggy can trace the wet slit of Angie’s cunt through her soaked knickers.
“You’ve endured your punishment with composure, Angie.”
Peggy drags her fingertips up the throbbing skin of Angie’s thighs, earning a harsh cry.
“Do you think you’ve earned a reward?”
Angie squirms in her hands, turning to look over her shoulder.
“Please, please Miss Peggy.”
An old fondness swells up in Peggy’s chest, for another set of blue eyes that used to beg just as sweetly. She’d always saved a special treat for him.
“Get on your knees.”
Angie winces when she moves to the floor but she’s obedient, her eyes never leaving Peggy’s face. Peggy offers one foot, nudging the toe of her boot between Angie’s legs until her shin is inches from her warm, wet cunt. The pale pink of her dress spills over the shining black of Peggy’s wicked boot, a lovely contrast that makes Peggy shift in her seat.
“I want you to bring yourself off on me like a good little pet.”
Angie’s eyes go wide and her mouth parts, shocked. A new trick, then.
“Do you think you’ll be able to do that, darling?” Peggy asks, softly.
Unlike the rote simplicity of men, women can vary so much in what they need. This is a reward, not an invitation to failure.
“I, yes, yes, Miss Peggy,” Angie sighs, a spike of humiliation only tempering her bright-eyed desire. She inches forward on her knees, lining herself up until her thighs close around Peggy’s boot.
“Like that, good girl.”
Peggy tucks Angie’s head onto her lap, running her fingers into the soft thickness of her hair. Angie ruts against her, shame evident in every angle of her body. Shame has its place. Peggy shushes her, pets through her hair and whispers soft encouragement as Angie humps against her, her grip growing tighter as she grinds her cunt in tight little circles.
“Oh, Miss Peggy, I’m,” is all Angie can manage before she vice-grips Peggy’s leg and chokes out a sob into her lap. The little twitches and starts of Angie’s body are the most beautiful thing, so honest, so utterly under Peggy’s control.
She will see this girl undone a thousand times.
“The next time you need this, you come directly to me, do you understand?”
Angie tilts her face up, a flower finding the sun.
Angie’s “Yes, Miss Peggy,” is all the payment she needs.