My Neighbor, My Mistress


I moved cross-country to Phoenix, Arizona for work when I was 22 years old and just out of college. Born-and-bred with Midwestern manners, after leasing a 1-bedroom apartment I proceeded to knock on the doors of and introduce myself to the neighbors who shared the building with me.

You know, just in case any of them ever needed to borrow a cup of sugar, or could use an extra set of hands in an emergency situation.

The gesture was met with disinterest at best and “get the hell off my doorstep” stares at worst. All with the exception of one, a mid-30s single-mother-type who seemed lonely and had a great smile. But that’s a story for another day.

Anyhow, the lesson of tall fences making great neighbors was not lost on me as I spent the next decade continually moving my way across the American Southwest, to the Deep South, east to the Mid-Atlantic and finally to Oahu, Hawaii where I settled in to a beachside community of townhomes overlooking an ocean-fed bay.

Given Hawaiian’s general distaste for outsiders – they dismissively call us haoles – I knew it’d take some work to ingratiate myself with the locals. Fortunately, I’d refined my ‘aw-shucks’ Midwestern approach over the years and began to discreetly take stock of my new neighbors.

Overall, the community was primarily haole, like me, but skewed more toward older, empty-nest couples. There were some newlyweds mixed in and several obvious ‘party’ units inhabited by gaggles of single Marines assigned to a nearby base. Pretty standard stuff, down to the housewives sunning themselves daily at the community pool.

Within a few months I had settled into a healthy routine: wake up, work out, go to actual work (hey, rent isn’t cheap!), and end most days watching the sunset from my private lanai with a cold Maui Big Swell beer in hand.

Being a solidly-built, tall, blue-eyed, brown-haired guy with just enough personality and manners, it didn’t take long for me to develop a social circle, complete with a leggy, SoCal transplant surfer/artist girlfriend.

In short, I was living the dream.

And then, one day while walking out to get my mail, I heard my name …

“Oh Frank, may I borrow you, please?”

Turning, I looked up and spotted Mrs. Harris calling from across the parking lot. Walking toward her, I caged my thoughts. Mid 50s, maybe. Married, I was pretty sure. And she was a runner. If I’d noticed her at all up to this point, it was on her daily morning run. From afar, I respected her disciplined routine and the way it was helping her age with a lean toughness.

“Hi Mrs. Harris, how goes it? Get in your run today?”

“I did thanks, this cooler weather is a real treat,” she replied. “Speaking of a treat, I was hoping you might join me for a drink this evening. There’s something I’d like to discuss. Say, six?”

“Of course, I’d be delighted.”

That gave me just over an hour, most of which I spent turning over the question of “wtf,” in my head. Was this a neighbor just being a neighbor? Was this a religious thing; God knows I’d been pitched all sorts of faiths over the years. Or, was she channeling her inner-cougar? And if so, mayyybee … She did have a toned, runner’s body, after all, which I began to reassess in an entirely new light.

Regardless, I was intrigued.


Promptly at six I found myself back at Mrs. Harris’ door, knocking with one hand and holding a hastily put together platter of crackers and spinach-artichoke dip in the other.

She greeted me with a smile that matched the warmth of her tastefully bright Tori Richards sundress. If this was a seduction, she was taking a decidedly Hawaiian approach, I thought, as she led me out to her lanai.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve mixed us a pitcher of Pimms Cup”, she said.

The drinks were strong, delicious, and before I knew it we’d passed several hours chatting amiably. Not flirting, but it had been a long while since I’d connected with someone so easily. As the sun set, I learned that Mrs. Harris’ husband, Ed, was a pilot with Hawaiian Airlines and gone more often than not. The two of them had one daughter, Rebecca, who was a sophomore at Arizona State. Once a model and debutante, Mrs. Harris now devoted her time to various charities on the island, enjoyed polo season up on the North Shore and despised politics.

In turn, I told Mrs. Harris about growing up in Nebraska, described the wanderlust that drove me to continually move across the country, and made her laugh by detailing my first failed attempt at surfing down off a break near Diamond Head.

“Well Frank, you are every bit as charming and well-mannered as I’d hoped,” Mrs. Harris said as an evening breeze began to kick up and we realized how late it had become. “Before you go, if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to show you something.”

A bit taken aback, but still warm from the drinks and lively conversation, all I could think was “oh here we go!”

Without missing a beat, Mrs. Harris led me off the lanai and up to the second floor of her home. Bycasino Since the layouts of our townhomes were the same I knew we were headed to the bedroom and couldn’t help but grow semi-hard as she swung the door open and a soft light shone out.

Walking inside, my first thought was home gym. But home gyms don’t have a long row of variously sized dildos hanging along a wall. Or paddles … Or – no – my eyes fixed on what my brain finally figured was a man, encased in rubber, bound to a large cross in the corner.

“Oh, Frank, your face is priceless,” squealed Mrs. Harris with delight.

“Is he alright,” I managed.

“He is in heaven dear, come lets have a closer look.”

As we approached, Mrs. Harris explained that the man was nearing the end of a sensory deprivation “session” and pointed out how the rubber hood affixed over his head blocked his ability to see or hear anything, including us.

Mrs. Harris then snatched what she called a “pinwheel” off her wall and proceeded to run it from the man’s rubber-encased lower thigh up to his groin. He jumped, settled, and then exhaled in delight through a black ball gag planted firmly in his jaw. A bit of drool shone in the soft light as it fell like a string from the gag to his chest.

“There it is in miniature, Frank, a surprise sensation – maybe even a small shock of pain or discomfort – followed by the pleasure of release. Look there, how he’s bobbing his head now, quietly begging for more.”

“I …”

“It’s a lot to take in, I know. Go home. Whether you head right to bed, or spend the night on the net googling all things “bdsm” is up to you. If you are comfortable, or even the least bit curious, please feel free to visit again.”

“Um, alright, sounds good Mrs. Harris.”

Meeting my still sheepish gaze, Mrs. Harris fixed me with her eyes. “In here I am Mistress Harris or ma’am, Frank.”

In a stupor, I turned and ran out.

Holy shit, I thought as I closed my front door, grabbed a beer and headed to my lanai to let that evening’s events unspool, “That was unbelievable.”

Over the next several days my mind continued to race back to what I’d seen that night. The toys on the wall. The bound man clad in rubber. Mrs. Harris’ transformation into “Mistress” Harris. More than anything, it left me wondering what else was hiding all around me, just beyond plain sight.

Inevitably, I found myself knocking on Mrs. Harris’ door before the week was out.


“Frank, so glad to see you again, please come on in. Would you like to chat down here on the lanai, or upstairs?”

I nodded toward her stairs and she led me back up.

“Mrs. – er – Mistress Harris, first, I’d just like to apologize for running out on you the other night.”

“Yes, that was disappointing, dear.”

“It’s just, I don’t know, I had never seen or thought of anything, well …”

She stared at me as I stammered, and I found calm in her emerald green eyes.

Collecting myself, I managed to say, “I don’t understand entirely what I saw, but I’m intrigued and want to know more.”

“Good, Frank, that was a lot for you to admit, and I’m proud of your candor. Now, get down on your knees.”

I complied and Mistress Harris rewarded me with a smile, told me this was my ready position, and then continued:

“I adore men, Frank. Always have. The way you are taught to square your shoulders, stand tall, and take on the world. The roughness of your hands and coarseness of your cheeks. The hunter and protector instincts that are baked into your very DNA.”

Mistress began to circle me, appraise me.

“Years ago, I’ll admit this bothered and intimidated me. It drove me a bit crazy that even the most average man was physically stronger than I could train to be.”

Mistress Harris stopped in front of me, meeting my eyes.

“So one day I decided to look deep inside my own self and realized the power of a gatherer. And over the years, as I’ve honed my skills and mind, I’ve gathered men who hunt and deliver – willingly – for me.”

Mistress reached down and cradled my head in her hands.

“Feel my hands, Frank, they are soft and un-worked. Admire the radiant glow of my skin, or consider the richness of my life on display all around you. From my darling Ed on down, dear, I truly love and admire men. But I do so from a place of dominance. For, I believe, and my life stands testament to, the fact that your gender exists to serve mine.”

She stepped back and my head dropped.

“Will you hunt for me, Frank?”

I looked up, and responded with surprisingly cool confidence, “Of course I will, Mistress.”


It has been years since I spoke those words, committing myself to Mistress Harris. Looking back, I recall the moment and concept as both arousing and confusing …I had no idea where things were headed or what I wanted, but knew the offer felt right. It was as big a leap of faith as I’d taken in life up to that point with another person.

Of course, Mistress knew this. Bycasino giriş She’d planned for it. As soon as I’d pledged myself to her, she set a folder on the ground before me. Reaching to pick it up, Mistress interrupted me:

“Do not move until I tell you to move, pet. You are going to take that folder home. Looking inside, I want you to picture the grandest, strongest building you have ever seen. Specifically, think about how it was designed to withstand both time and nature. The information I’m asking for and your inputs to them will serve as the cornerstone of our relationship, Frank. While I can’t say how strong we will become, I will tell you that everything will build off this first step.”

Finished, Mistress spun on her heels, instructing me to pick up the folder, leave, and not return until it was complete.

Over the next couple of weeks I found myself: poked and prodded as part of a comprehensive physical exam, which even included stepping into a “body pod” that measured my dimensions and percentage of body fat versus muscle; on a couch being interrogated by a psychologist; answering a multi-page questionnaire that defined my hard limits on a greater range of activities than I could have ever hoped to imagine; and visiting a local bank to set up and fund an account that Mistress could access for expenses.

Needless to say, I was eager and excited when everything was complete and I was back, knocking on Mistress Harris’ door.

Imagine my surprise, then, when her husband Ed opened it.

“Ah Frank, don’t look so stunned. There’s a dungeon on the upper floor of my home, did you really think you were a secret?” he chuckled as he called out for his wife.

I’d spent weeks anticipating this moment, imagining that – with my folder complete – Mistress, clad in her finest dominatrix gear, would lead me back up to her play room to make me her pet, slave, toy, or whatever other kinky role she had in mind.

Which is why I was taken aback when she greeted me in an unassumingly modest swimsuit and ballcap.

“Punctual as always, pet,” she said, smiling and taking the completed folder from me. “Ed and I are just headed out for a kayak over to Coconut Island and back. We should be gone just long enough for you to scrub out the bathrooms on the main floor.”

Needless to say, I was a little bit heartbroken and quite pissed to hear this.

“Don’t say a word, dear, I can read the disappointed written all over your face,” Mistress said, sharply. “What, was I supposed to saunter into the room all leather-clad in a pair of high heeled boots for you,” she laughed.

“Remember, this arrangement is about serving me. Still, I do have something that might motivate you. Take off your clothes, pet.”

I looked at Ed.

“Eyes on me, pet,” Mistress commanded. “Now, take off your clothes.”

Well, put up or shut up, I thought as I began to disrobe.

“Good. Ed, pick up Frank’s clothes and place them on the table over there. Frank, come with me.”

She led me into a side room and proceeded to fit me into a strappy, black leather harness-type device that I began to realize counted, just barely, as an outfit. Mercifully, it included a thong-pouch that covered my genitalia.

“Almost complete,” she said, before commanding me to kneel before her. “Just a few finishing touches.”

Mistress then produced a long set of anal beads and commanded me to fit them up my ass. A new experience, I marveled at how full they made me feel as I slid them in bead, by increasingly larger, bead. Seemingly satisfied by my performance, Mistress took out a bold red lipstick, bent down, and applied it onto my lips.

She then stepped back to admire her handiwork – me! – kneeling before her.

“A true vision,” she exclaimed. “Now, unless you object, pet, I’m going to place this collar around your neck.”

“Yes please, Mistress.”

The warm leather felt comforting against my jugular and I enjoyed hearing it clip into place.

“Good boy. Remain in your ready position until Ed and I leave. Then you may get up and begin cleaning.”

I recall being both aroused and a little bit shocked every time I saw myself in a mirror that day. The collar, the lipstick, and the whole getup. I never could have imagined anything like it, or seeing myself transformed in that way.


In those early days, my training – as I began to think of it – didn’t vary significantly from that first session. I never grew to enjoy cleaning, but did it for Mistress. In turn, she’d surprise me with small rewards. For example, upon greeting Mistress, she began allowing me to kiss her cheek before kneeling. And at the end of the day’s training, she’d allow me to kiss her hands. I enjoyed developing these small rituals between us. It sounds silly in its simplicity, but I’d begun to look more forward to those small gestures than to more overtly sexual or romantic ones with my girlfriend.

Ah yes, the girlfriend. I tried, I really did. But my entire worldview toward women, gender-roles Bycasino deneme bonusu and norms and even what turned me on was changing. I didn’t exactly know how to explain any of this to her and ultimately it took one of the kindest gestures possible to push me over the edge.

After a long, unusually tough day at work, my girlfriend invited me over to her place. I’d been texting her throughout the day about what a slog it had been. To help, she’d prepared a dinner for us, gave me a generous backrub – everything was leading us to her bedroom, but I just couldn’t. While grateful for all her love and caring, none of it felt right. And so, awkwardly, right then, I did my best to explain how it was me who should have been serving her. Which led to my diving into my new-found beliefs towards women as superior, men as servant-providers, etc.

When she asked where all these crazy new ideas were coming from, I didn’t have the heart to tell her the whole tale. And that, for better or worse, was it for me and vanilla women.

The next day, I told Mistress about the encounter. She sat and invited me to crawl over and put my head in her lap. Stroking my hair, she called my realization a “breakthrough.”

“You are like a chick who is just now breaking through its eggshell, my pet,” she continued. “A new world is opening to you.”

She then affixed a leash to my collar, leading me back upstairs to her play space for the first time since I’d pledged myself to her.

Closing the door, she directed me to remove the strappy-leather outfit, plug, and lipstick that had become my standard uniform in her presence. In its place, Mistress gave me a simple pair of tight, shiny, purple latex boxer briefs to wear. They had a zipper that ran from the backside, up to my groin area. I loved them, which was good, because I was told to wear them at all times. And to be sure to always clean and shine them before presenting myself. A new ritual!

She also gave me a new, matching purple collar to wear in her presence.

Finally, she explained that I’d graduated from cleaning the public areas of her home, to being in charge of keeping her play space sanitized and cleaned. Part of this involved being on call at all hours, which I was very much alright with.

“Lastly, my pet, I’m going to ask for your largest sacrifice yet.”

“Anything, ma’am.”

“You are a young, strapping man. Already, our training has resulted in your spurning the romantic advances of a very nice young woman. Whether this is a step forward or backward in your life, only you can truly know. But now, I’m going to require all your orgasms.”

“I don’t quite understand, ma’am,” I said, excitedly. Roughly three months into training, this was the most direct sexual discussion we’d shared.

“Simply, it means that you will deny yourself any sexual pleasure outside of my presence, pet. No sex. No masturbating. No pornography. Nothing without my consent. Do you understand?”

Shit. I really enjoyed all those things. “I do, Mistress.”

“Good boy, now unzip those boxers for me.”

I did, and my erect, pink cock sprung free.


I complied and Mistress walked toward me, stopping inches from my face. She was wearing tight yoga-type pants and I felt faint thinking about how close I was to her womanhood.

“Stroke yourself for me, my pet.”

Greedily, I grabbed my cock and began Slowly, proudly. Precum began to form, lubing my shaft and cock head. I was glad to show Mistress how hard she made me and how long I’d dreamed of this type of intimacy between us.

“Good boy, now cum on my feet, you horny little slut.”

Shocked, I came almost immediately, sending a white stream of cum down onto her bare feet and toes.

“Well, I think you know what in here needs to be cleaned first,” she said with a smile. “No hands now, just that handsome mouth and strong tongue of yours will do.”


Keeping the play space clean was a step up and I enjoyed handling and learning about all the toys contained within. It was fully stocked with everything from wrist restraints and spreader bars to bit gags and realistic looking pony tail butt plugs. Moreover, the work was helping me frame my own fantasies, desires and dislikes. For instance, I found Mistress’ collection of ball gags incredibly appealing, but had no desire to ever be on the receiving end of her electric wands.

The work could also be frustrating as it left me continually longing to become Mistress’ plaything versus servant. The opportunities to masturbate for her were plentiful enough and a generous gesture, but maintaining the play space – from shining up latex hoods and thigh-high boots pre-session, to washing used strapons post-session – continually stoked my desires.

This feeling increased exponentially when, one day Mistress informed me that I’d been promoted to being her session assistant.

Of course, this increased responsibility came with a new outfit. The purple latex boxer-briefs remained – at all times – but when assisting, I wore a loose-fitting white latex jumpsuit and purple hood that obscured everything but my eyes. The outfit also included wrist-length latex gloves and socks. Fully dressed, I appeared more like a shiny, shapeless ghost than human.

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