Unsung Heroes of the Porn Industry: Mistress Matilda
_I guess you could call this a temporary leaving gift: I'm off to Poland tomorrow and I'll be there for up to eight weeks. This is the first story I've finished in far too long, and I hope you enjoy it. I don't think this story is as hot as "Amy The Trainer", but I think you might enjoy the novelty of a second person perspective. The UHotPI series is all about experimenting with different acts and styles, and on that level this story is quite interesting for me. Hope you find it so too!
"Although established stars are normally outside the remit of Unsung Heroes, we could not pass up the chance to say goodbye to Mistress Matilda, who recently retired from film production. We at Unsung Heroes of the Porn Industry got in touch and asked her for a personal account of one of her experiences, and we got back something quite different from what we were expecting. However, we set out to get the stories that you won't have heard anywhere else, and in that respect we most definitely fulfilled our goal. Enjoy her tale, and join us in wishing her all the best in her retirement. And, speaking personally, I didn't know she had a second name either."_
You show up at the studio at five to eight. In an industry full of divas, drama queens and unreliable kids you know that directors value a girl that shows up five minutes early to any appointment. Your reputation for reliability has taken years to develop. You smile at the security guard and he makes the same old joke about not recognising you in your civilian clothes. You smile at that even though it wasn't funny the first time. Outside of the studio you take care to treat everyone with courtesy. Professionalism is your watchword, after all. How can you discipline others if you cannot discipline yourself?
You start working yourself into character the moment you step through the door. You stop being Matilda Morrigan and start transforming yourself into Mistress Matilda. It isn't naturally easy for a mouse to intimidate others. It takes strength of mind. It takes will, and getting the flesh right helps to shape the will. You walk taller and radiate utter self confidence with every step. Your tail becomes a belt of flesh, held close to you, the tip moving slowly back and forth, like that of a pet cat on the hunt. Every step becomes precise and measured, identical to the one before. Your eyes cool, harden and look through everything; as though you can see right through into their innermost core and are barely managing to hide your contempt for it.
You give a simple, curt nod to performers that you pass. Not the greeting of an equal greeting another, but merely an acknowledgement that you have seen them and that they may continue to exist. You meet other performers and studio employees as you head for your own set, everyone busy in their own way. Some of these are friends of Matilda Morrigan, but Mistress Matilda has no friends. They step out of your way and give knowing smiles as you march past.
A short, stocky rat with a tattooed tail almost walks into you as he comes around the corner. He is wearing a fluffy blue dressing gown and stares at you in awe. He stops dead in your path and tries to apologise. Despite him being a foot taller, you sweep him out of the way with one arm as easily as a doll. You keep walking while he stammers, his jaw flopping like a dying fish. He must be new around here, or he would've saved his breath. He probably calls you a bitch behind your back, but you don't care. You are Mistress Matilda now, absolute queen of all that she surveys. He is absolutely nothing.
You can judge the effect you are having quite easily. Canines and Lupines in particular become more obedient and eager to please. They can't help themselves in the presence of a female so overtly, definitively "alpha" as yourself. You allow yourself a slight smile at the terror you can inflict with an arched eyebrow. The poor wolf on work experience that has been assigned as your assistant almost wets himself if you so much as look at him.
You head directly to wardrobe. One of the privileges of being one of the main stars is that you are allowed to pick whatever you think best for the scene. However, it is Hobson's Choice: you can have whatever you like, so long as it is black. In the early days, you used to get very excited as you chose what to wear, trying on a dozen different outfits just to see what they felt like to wear. You pause, remembering the occasion where you got so excited that you had to grab one of the fluffers from a neighbouring set to calm yourself down.
You undress quickly, removing any trace of Matilda Morrigan. You pull the pin that holds back hair so blonde it seems white and let it drop to your shoulders, shaking it out as it settles. You pull on a pair of black silk stockings and half a cow's worth of black leather. Today's outfit is a low cut, floor length dress, expensively and expertly made. Four strips cut into the sides as though by giant claws reveal the dark grey fur beneath. It flatters in all the right places and has that real leather smell you've always loved. It creaks a little when you move, bulging just right. Underneath is a gorgeous corset set, fine black lace that reveals nothing to the casual looker, but so much to those gifted with an imagination. It looks as though it was spun, not made. It looks as though it was weaved by the offspring of silk worms and Black Widow spiders. Perfect. The boots are also dull black leather, rising up to your knees, giving that part of you something to attract attention too.
You pick out your favourite pair of gloves to complete the outfit. They are also of black leather and fit close to your arm, right up to the elbow. Two lines of steel studs protrude through the glossy surface along the back, dull but threatening in appearance.
You examine yourself in the mirror and try out a few poses. You look through the mask as Matilda Morrigan and Mistress Matilda glares right back. The reflection glares at you, her eyes narrowed and disapproving, her lips a thin, unforgiving line. Her naked tail swishes like a whip. Her breasts are only b-cups, but they are pushed up nicely by the corset and appear much bigger. She does not look her mere five foot seven inches. She looks seven feet tall She looks like a goddess, unappeasable and terrible, but to be worshipped nonetheless. There is no sign of Matilda Morrigan in the mirror. There is only Mistress Matilda, and she is you. The mask is almost complete.
You grab a riding crop on the way past, almost as an afterthought. You don't need it to keep your slaves in line, but it makes good punctuation to any command. You can't sit down in this outfit, so the make-up girls stand on chairs instead. Every strand of fur must be perfect. Every curve and feminine bulge must be accentuated and indefinably hardened, so that you appear to be more real than everything else. You must make it so that everything around you appears flawed in comparison. You must be feared and worshipped before you even open your mouth. A good mistress can do this with a stare and with her posture, and you are the best in the business.
The make-up artists avoid eye contact, even with your reflection. There is none of the friendly banter you find in other dressing rooms. Morrigan goes out of her way to be nice to them after a shoot to compensate. The make up artists are used to the acting temperament, even in porno actresses. They don't complain. They just weave subtle cosmetic magic and make you look stunning. You check yourself in the mirror again, making sure that you look as good from the rear as you do from the font. You give the make-up artists a nod, as close to praise as they will ever get from you inside the studio.
You have several scenes to shoot. Each one has been timed to last approximately nine minutes on the actual DVD they release. Someone somewhere actually sat down and worked out that that is how long the average BDSM fan lasts while watching you in action, something that amuses you every time you think about it.
The crew fall silent as you push open the doors to the stage. You can't resist standing in the doorway for a moment, dramatically framed and lit from behind. You push your hair behind your ears, slap the crop lightly against your thigh and treat the room to your best Mistress Matilda scowl.
"What are you creeps staring at?" You bark. "Let's get started!"
Everyone suddenly finds something to do, busying themselves with cameras, lights and the sound equipment. The director approaches, a forty year old squirrel with a reputation for being something of a ball-buster. He hands you the notes and you scan them briefly to make sure nothing has changed since yesterday. You have already read and memorised the script, but you are Mistress Matilda. You call the shots as much as the director does. If you improvise, they'll go with it. So long as you don't actually inflict a permanent injury, this is your show.
You step into the fierce lights of the studio and crick your neck. You cast a critical eye over the set, a generic dungeons setting. The walls appear to be made of thick stone, but though the bricks are large and heavy looking they are barely an inch thick. The steel rings fixed to them are hollow and aluminium and were probably bought from a bathroom store. Still, the illusion is good enough.
Today's victims are already in place. A fox and an otter are kneeling down in the appropriate places. Both seem to be reading copies of the script, unaware that they won't really be needing them. You already have the shooting script memorised and will position them how they need to be arranged. Again, professionalism. The director asks for the introductory shot. An aide darts out of the pool of blackness around the stage and snatches the scripts from the guys. Some lights switch on, some lights switch off. The darkness around the stage becomes deeper and obscures all but the camera lenses, which glimmer menacingly with the reflection of the action on stage.
The director calls for quiet on set. There is instant hush. Your two newest slaves glance at each other and prostrate themselves before you, grinning self-consciously. You take a deep breath and smooth down your dress, the leather creaking ominously. The fox looks up at you and smiles nervously. You simply stare, and his eyes drop to your feet almost immediately. You put your paws on your hips and start tapping your feet. Inside you are calm and ready, but the mask is irritable and impatient.
At last, the director calls for "Action". You crack the crop down hard against your thigh, the leather absorbing most of the blow. The slight sting that remains feels good, once you're used to it. The pain helps the concentration. Lesson one for mistress as well as slave. The fox flinches, but keeps his eyes down. The otter falls for the trap and looks up.
"What do you think you're looking at, hmm?"
The otter stammers, trying to protest, apologise and explain all at once. You give him a freezing stare, the riding crop drumming out an SOS on your leg.
"Shut up."
He shuts up. You don't even need to raise your voice. The fox glances at the otter and smirks, enjoying his discomfort. Cameras whirr, anticipating what will come next. Is a slave with a brain really that much to hope for? Did he really think that you wouldn't notice?
You round on the fox, swatting him on the back of the head with the crop.
"And what do YOU have to grin about, you useless little shit?"
His face drops like a guillotine. You move behind the fox and put my foot between his shoulder blades. You don't have to push hard when you're wearing stilettos. He falls onto his face with a thump and a wince. You move behind the otter and do the same.
"Don't move."
They freeze, not daring to move, not daring to breathe, not daring to blink. Already they have forgotten the world beyond this island of light in a sea of darkness. They are simply toys for the amusement of Mistress Matilda. You put one foot in the hollow of each of their backs and carefully shift your weight from side to side, making your heels dig into their spine. There is an intake of breath from the blackness, probably sympathy. You pretend you didn't hear. The otter and the fox both have gritted teeth, but neither makes a sound. They are learning.
"I am Mistress Matilda," You announce good and loud, for the benefit of the camera. "and I am your worst nightmare."
I can feel eyes upon me, watching Mistress Matilda in action. Perhaps there is one amongst the crew who wishes they were in the fox or the otter's place right now. You would not be surprised if that were true. Mistress Matilda would not be surprised either. She would expect it. Male or female, young or old. Mistress Matilda could take all but the strongest and wrap them around her riding crop like a perverted caduceus.
Everything goes as smoothly and as predictably as it ever does with Mistress Matilda in charge. Your two newest slaves are quickly broken and remade to suit your wishes, competing for the honour of licking your boots clean. You teach them to speak only when spoken to, to keep their eyes to themselves unless granted permission. To obey without thinking or hesitating, surrendering themselves willingly to a superior will. Despite their poor initial performance, they are quick learners and begin to get into the role properly. You are pleased. It will look better on camera that way.
Once you have done all the basics, it is time for you to move on. What happens next is up to you. Feeling particularly mean, you tie the fox in the kneeling position, his paws secured to his ankles. At your command, the otter puts his arms around the fox and rests his head upon his shoulder. The fox looks a little uncomfortable being like this with another male, which is the whole point.
You wait while the director repositions your slaves and the cameras. These interruptions are unavoidable, but they are troublesome when you are in the middle of something. In the early days you used to be distracted by the director telling you to move so that the cameramen can capture whatever nasty thing you were doing to your victims or so they could get the perfect close up on the look on their face, and so on. Now you barely break your stride, simply making whatever change is requested and carrying on as though nothing had happened.
You take the opportunity to sip from a bottle of mineral water. It is intensely hot in this costume under studio lights. You don't drink too much. Taking a break for a trip to the bathroom is unthinkable. You're too much of a professional for that.
Action is called once more. You remove the hot leather dress nice and slowly, never forgetting the cameras unblinking stare. As appealing as you are in your lingerie, neither the fox or the otter try and look. You have already taught them that lesson. You remove a toy from the shelf and hold it daintily between thumb and forefinger. The highly polished leather of the straps catches the light more than the matt black plastic of the dildo securely fastened to it. It is one of the smaller toys, smooth and tapered, barely five inches long. The larger, textured toy you leave on the shelf today, doubting that either is loose enough to take it.
You turn your back to one of the cameras and put on the harness, framing your backside in the camera shot, your paws lacing the ties that pass over and underneath your tail, and between your legs. You tie everything nice and tight. You cock your head and flick the rounded tip, your claw tip clicking on the fake member. The director calls a lube break so the otter can get some gel applied and you can smear some high quality lubricant onto the strap-on. No damage is the rule, but it doesn't hurt anybody to imply that Mistress Matilda is harsher than she actually is. You know that nobody who watches your videos would care either way. Many would be disappointed if she were not.
Straight back into the action the moment the director unleashes you, you grab the otter's tail and yank it upwards. The joints crackle loudly, but he lifts his rump a little higher for you without complaint. You make sure the camera can get a good view as you ease the toy into his rear. He moans softly despite himself, but you allow him to get away with it. You keep pushing forward, one of your finest Mistress Matilda smiles lurking at the corners of your muzzle.
The fox winces, making you look up. The otter has bitten down on the fox's neck in his discomfort and excitement. You give him a light slap, just enough to turn his cheek a little. They would probably speed it up a bit and add a meatier slap sound to make it look nastier on tape, but that's not your problem.
"I didn't say you could make a sound, fox."
You start to take the otter while the fox watches, knowing he could be next. All he can do is kneel there while the otter leans against him, his moans getting louder as you pound his tailhole. In a way, both Matilda Morrigan and Mistress Matilda feel a pang of jealousy towards the otter. This is all new to him. For you, this is just another day in the office, pounding a submissive slave as routine as paperwork. Every moan you have heard before, every plea for mercy or favour so much water cooler gossip.
You thrust a little harder, pushing the otter against the fox, nearly toppling him. You growl at him to lean forward and support his fellow slave while you press harder. You reach underneath him with your left paw and hold up his leg with the right, showing off his arousal to the camera. You brush his stomach with gloved fingers and then delicately trace down the underside of his shaft with a fingertip. With a shudder and a pitiful groan, he begins to spurt, shooting otter cream into the fox's lap. That won't make the DVD in case it puts the straight fans off, but it's something you find amusing
You fly through the rest of the scenes, focusing on the fox for a little while, teasing with pain and torturing with pleasure until they are both so much helpless putty in your gloved paws. Once you are done with the fox and the otter, you spend the afternoon playing with a willing wolf and a small electrical generator. Mistress Matilda does her work well, and the hours whizz by. The director finally calls a halt to the day's shoot at around five pm.
You untie the wolf, who tries to slip you his phone number. You take it and smile with your mouth, then pass it to your assistant to get rid of the moment he leaves. You head straight into your dressing room and peel off the gloves, then the lingerie, then finally the boots and stockings. You wipe the lipstick off with a baby wipe and put on your civilian clothing once more. You hang Mistress Matilda in the wardrobe and leave her at the studio, swinging beside the herd of leather you store in your closet.
Mistress Matilda walked into the changing room, but Matilda Morrigan walks out. You check in with the director before you leave. No scenes tomorrow. Last day of the shoot, remember? You grab your purse, go and thank the make-up girls for doing such an amazing job on you. You make enough small talk to remind both them and you that there is a person underneath the mask. You stretch off in the corridor outside the set, feeling restless and irritable. Pounding a guy's ass, zapping another one in the crotch with a scaled back stun gun until he started creaming himself, having a third one bent over your knee while you paddled his backside raw beneath the fur? It'd been a dreary day at the office, that was for sure.
You drive home as quickly as the speed limit will let you and climb the stairs to your apartment. Your spirits lift with every step. The key turns silently in your lock. You are home. The door clicks quietly into place behind you, locking out the crazy world behind you. All the crazy shit belongs outside. This is Matilda Morrigan's sanctuary, and she guards it fiercely. The sound of running water trickles into her ears from the bathroom, carrying with it the scent of lavender. You smile and follow the scent to it's source.
A handsome young rat is busy in there. He is wearing black pants and a slightly crumpled white shirt, the material turned slightly see-through by the water vapour, showing off the well muscled chest beneath. He is humming to himself, his tail keeping time like a metronome as he checks and rechecks everything is to his satisfaction. He looks over at you and smiles, the faucet squeaking as he shuts off the water.
He walks over and hugs you tight. You respond, slipping effortless into his embrace and feeling every care become crushed so small by his strong arms that it becomes invisible. You kiss him on the cheek and decide that one of the many things you love him for is that he understands. He doesn't need to ask what you have done today. Without being told, he knows that he must never, ever call you "Mistress". He does kind things without hesitating. You know he loves you, not merely adoring or worshipping some aspect of you or your mask. He is aware of Mistress Matilda and what she does for a living and doesn't care at all.
"When you weren't done by four I figured you'd need this" He smiles.
You nod and smile, then kiss him. He strokes your back as he responds, breaking the kiss with a soft smooching sound.
"Better get in before it gets cold, Matigan." He teases.
Matigan was what his niece called you one time, and it became another of his terms of endearment. You give his backside a squeeze and haul off your jeans and t-shirt. He wolf-whistles approvingly and picks up your clothes the moment you take them off. You grin and tell him to stop being such a mother hen as he fusses around you. He carries off your clothes while you step gingerly into the tub. The water feels hotter than lava at first, but as you get used to it the heat becomes welcome and bearable.
Steam rises all around you as you settle back. It is a big tub, and your feet don't even reach the taps as you rest your head against the side and close your eyes, the water lapping softly at your ears like waves on a tropical beach. You breathe in deeply, inhaling the relaxing scent of whatever he poured into the bath. Your boring day at work is forgotten, washed away by the hot, fragrant bath water.
He walks into the bathroom again, still wearing that shirt but minus the pants, halfway through getting changed. You both walk around the house naked half the time anyway, so this about as novel as being called Mistress to you. He sits on the side of the tub and leans down, giving you a peck on the cheek.
"Is everything OK?"
He's in a mood to spoil you, it seems. You mumble something under your breath and giggle to yourself before sinking into the bath a little. Only your eyes and nose peek above the steaming surface. He leans in a little closer, either falling for the trap or willing to go along with it. You burst up with a giggle and strike, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him into the bath with you. Water splashes everywhere, soaking the floor and swamping the cute little candles he'd lit. He splutters, a white beard of froth clinging to his face as he surfaces.
He is a little blinded by water and foam, so you hold him by the scruff and pull his face to your own. He chuckles even as he feels your lips against his own and your tongue against those. He puts an arm around you and presses his tongue into your muzzle, seeking your own and finding it. You suckle lightly upon it and swipe your paw across his eyes, letting him see you. His fur plasters to his body and his shirt clings to his fur, and all is soaked and sodden. You hook your legs behind his own, trapping him upon you. He murrs softly and simply holds the kiss, while displaced water continues to slop over the side with every movement you both make.
The kiss continues, the passionate embrace not ceasing. He puts one paw on the back of the tub to lift a little of his weight from you, but you're not letting him get away that easily. You put your arms around his neck and drag him back down, wanting to feel his reassuring weight, wanting to be held close. He gives in and puts both arms around you, underneath your own. Your breasts press into his chest, the covering them floating and wafting on the currents your bodies make.
You break the kiss and growl playfully, grabbing his shirt collars and pulling outwards. The buttons pop and plunk into the water as you expose his chest. You lean in and suck upon his damp neck, helping him to pull his arms out of the sleeves and drop the ruined shirt over the side. The healthy layer of foam has been reduced to a smear around the rim, like an empty cocktail glass. You release his neck and he immediately moves in on your own, kissing and nibbling up and down the side. You gasp happily and scratch down his back in return, your tail looping around his waist.
He puts his paw on your stomach and gently presses you back. He pulls away, his cheeks bulging. He waggles his eyebrows and spits a mouthful of water straight onto your breasts. The gentle pressure of the stream of water tickles a little and exposes the flesh beneath the fur wherever it touches. You giggle, as much from the look on his face as the mild tickling. His cheeks hollow out again and he homes in on the target he just drew upon your breasts.
He draws out a sigh from you with his tongue and with his teeth, nibbling very lightly and licking slowly around each nipple in turn, probably getting another mouthful of water for his trouble. You hold the back of his head with one paw and stroke the back of his neck with the other. You feel pressure upon your leg and smile happily, glad that he is enjoying this as much as you are.
You move him away from your breasts by reaching under his muzzle and lifting his head by the jaw. He looks at you questioningly until you, until you wink and curl your tail around his rathood beneath the surface of the water.
"Ahh, I see. With lots and lots and lots and LOTS of pleasure" He beams, blowing a few drops of water out of his eyes.
You brush his fringe out of his way, slicking it back against his skull. He grins.
"Peek-a-boo."
"Squeak. Oh no." you deadpan, then burst into giggles.
He leans forward to kiss you, but you know as well as he does that that is not how this movement will finish. You move your legs up and out, offering yourself to him without reservation. Your feet dangle over the sides of the bath, cooling quickly in the air. In the fading heat of the water you feel him against your entrance, his muzzle meshing with your own. The water aids the moisture of your arousal, making a smooth path for your lover. You close your eyes and gasp as he enters, the first few inches pressing in quickly. Moans tremble against each other's lips as you become one, two joined in body as well as in soul.
Now that he is inside, the rest of him follows naturally. He holds you close and kisses your neck as he hilts, pressing your backside against the enamel. You link legs behind his back and hold onto his shoulders. The water sloshes noisily, your lover's slow and deep thrusts making waves build up in the tub, draining more water from it. Your moans reverberate in the tiled echo chamber of your bathroom.
His balls bump against you, their movement slowed by the resistant water. Your love has no difficulties at all in that department. He is into his rhythm now, the slow, steady lovemaking he can keep up for hours if he chooses to. You can feel your insides heating up from the heavenly, lustful friction. You fall in with his pattern instinctively, lifting yourself to his thrusts, helping him to impale you upon his thick member, helping it to touch you in all the right places deep inside.
He kisses up the side of your neck and finds your lips once more. The kiss is as deep and as loving as everything else he is giving to you. He groans happily as your tongue slowly writhes and curls up with his own. He moves slightly faster, cranking up the pleasure a few notches, the tide mark of your pleasure creeping up a little higher. You peer at him through loving eyes as he fills you with pleasure, making your fur tingle, making every nerve light up like a starry night.
Your mind reels in bliss as you tumble into your first orgasm, breathing hard and fast now. You groan and gaps his name into his ear, saying more with an rumble of ecstasy than you could ever hope to speak. You know he understands you. He always does. You feel additional warmth inside you, his pre making promises you can feel he will soon deliver. You kiss him with hunger now, needing him to keep that promise. He accidentally pulls the plug out with his tail as he begins his climax thrusts. The whirlpool sucks at your feet and at your tail with noisy squelching noises that go almost unheard. You stare into his dark brown eyes and could bathe in them forever.
The tightness returns inside you, well on the way to a second climax. He clutches you tightly, arches his back and throws his head back suddenly. You feel his hot, thick seed gush deep inside you, soothing your aching tunnel with his cream. He always has a big climax, and this one is no exception. You feel so full of his love juices, and when your second orgasm hits a few seconds later he still has a little seed left to be milked out by your inner muscles as they ripple and spasm around him. He sags on top of you and you hug him close. The last of the bathwater gurgles down the sink, leaving a big old clog of mingled fur in the trap.
After fifteen years in the adult movie business, the mask is getting tatty. Mistress Matilda has been having her wicked fun for so long, it's ceased to feel wicked or fun. It's time that Matilda Morrigan took centre stage for a while. You decide that it's time to you did something new and exciting, bizarre and frightening. With barely a tremble in your voice, you ask him. He smiles and snuggles up to you, his voice calm but his eyes and tail full of excitement. He accepts. Not the conventional way this is meant to go, but when has that stopped you before? You've built a career on the unconventional.