The Mistress – Romance in a Few Acts IV

This part is a continuation of Part 3, but the overall context is understandable even without reading it beforehand. This installment turned out much softer than the previous ones. There are almost no descriptions of sex scenes or body modifications. There is domination and a few dirty words, but only where they couldn’t be avoided.

The story with all illustrations can be read on my Patreon.

Chapter 1

 

The doctor set the device aside and took off his glasses.

“That’s it. What’s left isn’t going anywhere.”

How? To Wanda, it sounded like a sentence.

“Thank your tattoo artist. I honestly can’t imagine how someone that incompetent took on work like this.”

That hurt too. Wanda’s “tattoo artist” was in a psychiatric hospital—and Wanda still loved her.

“But the writing on my cheeks is gone!”

“The font there was thinner, the pressure lighter. But on your forehead they went all in—too deep. You’re lucky there were no complications, but something like this can’t be removed at this point. You can keep doing sessions, but it’ll just waste your money. You can cover it. Or hide it with bangs. Foundation and powder can only be used after six months.””

Wanda left the medical center already knowing she would have to live like this.

With a giant word “Mistress” across her forehead.

She had known something like this might happen. She wasn’t usually the type to fall apart.

But now the tears came on their own.

No job. No relationship. Her money was running out. Somewhere deep inside, a small hope still flickered—that she might see Karina again—but she didn’t want to think about that now. There was no time. She needed money. Urgently.

Insurance had covered the hospital bill, but the medication and follow-up procedures were still unpaid. And most of all—the countless expensive tattoo removal sessions. They had drained her completely. The only consolation was that the inscriptions she couldn’t hide at all had finally disappeared.

Work wasn’t going anywhere. She had built too much of her career around medicine and social services—and now that path was closed. Some places didn’t require a license, but they needed references. Employers would check anyway.

Karina was known. The story had made it into the press: a relationship with a patient that led to harm and an incident. And worst of all—you didn’t even need to look it up.

It was written right on Wanda’s forehead.

Sometimes it felt like it didn’t say “Mistress,” but “REJECT.”

Her attempts to get a job as a personal secretary or assistant failed too. Office work—out of the question.

It seemed to Wanda that if she had a swear word on her forehead, it would actually be easier. At least that could be explained: “drunk,” “on a dare”—simple answers everyone understood.

In her case, it created intrigue. Too much attention.

The honest answer—“my lover and I were practicing submission, things went too far, she lost her mind, tied me to a chair and tattooed my face”—was hardly going to improve her chances of getting hired.

Wanda took the rejections calmly. She understood the employers. She knew everything would change once the tattoo was removed.

She knew—

until this morning.

Chapter 2

With tear-streaked eyes, Wanda arrived at the employment center at the appointed time. What she needed most right now was benefits, but any job openings or courses would also help.

The employee’s expression promised nothing good. An elderly woman with glasses perched low on her nose looked at Wanda with open disapproval for a few seconds, then gave a theatrical sigh and turned to her computer.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any vacancies for a mistress.”

Wanda quietly began to cry.

“Calm down, dear. You have a good résumé: social services experience, courses in medicine and psychology, positive references… and an incident. How did you even get into that situation?”

“It was an accident.”

“Have you considered physical labor?”

“I’m still recovering from two fractures. The doctors have forbidden a lot of walking and any manual work. I can’t do courier or warehouse jobs right now.”

“What about training programs before employment?”

“Yes, but nothing too long. I really need money.”

“Alright. I’ve entered your details and posted your résumé. You’ll be notified about vacancies and courses. For now, you can rely on social benefits.”

“Thank you,” Wanda said, getting up from her chair.

“One more thing,” the woman added. “You can hide your forehead with bangs. And you don’t have to wait for your hair to grow out.”

She adjusted her hairstyle—and it became clear that her hair wasn’t entirely her own.

“There’s an excellent wig shop just a block away.”

Wanda went into the wig shop.

She had thought about getting a wig before. But first, there were still tattoos under her eyes. Second, there had been hope that the inscription on her forehead could be removed. And third, wigs weren’t cheap.

A sales assistant approached her. It was clear she was a little surprised, but she tried not to show it and kept her tone as friendly as possible.

“Are you looking for a wig for roleplay? We have some unusual colors. Some even glow under UV light.”

“I need to hide this,” Wanda said, not beating around the bush, pointing straight at her forehead.

The assistant hesitated for a moment, realizing her initial suggestion had been inappropriate, but quickly recovered.

“Then a model with bangs would suit you. I think we should start with your natural color.”

She brought over a light-colored wig with thick bangs.

Wanda tried it on and looked in the mirror. The tattoo was still visible.

 

They tried other options. Wanda casually asked about the prices, already realizing that many of them were out of her reach.

A black wig hid the lettering best.

Wanda asked the price. She had just enough money in her account—barely.

Even that option wasn’t perfect: the slightest movement of the hair, and the letters would show through on her forehead. But it was better than nothing.

Wanda walked up to the register without taking off the wig.

She tapped her card.

Her account dropped to zero.

Chapter 3

At home, the concierge reminded her about the overdue payment and told her a package had been left for her.

It was a small box. On the side was written: “Mistress.”

At first, Wanda thought it was a cruel joke. Still, she opened it.

Inside were things from Karina’s house. The Mistress’s things.

That same revealing outfit Wanda had worn only a few times—and only at home. Going outside in it had never even been an option. A whip. A tattoo machine. Hair clippers. Karina’s collar.

It seemed someone from the property management had inspected the house, found the box, and sent it to its presumed recipient.

For Wanda, these things carried both pain and nostalgia. They belonged to a world that had disfigured her and driven Karina insane. But it had been their world.

The phone rang.

“Good afternoon, Wanda. This is Mrs. Jones from the employment service. We met earlier today. There’s a referral for a one-week hairdressing course. After that—possible employment at a salon. Would you be interested?”

“Of course, Mrs. Jones.”

“Did you buy a wig?”

“Yes, just as you suggested. The shop has a great selection.”

“Then come in tomorrow. Write down the address. Good luck, dear.”

 

The week flew by.

Now Wanda sat in the office of the salon manager.

“So, Miss Smith. You were the top student in the courses we sponsor to train new staff. Our salon is luxury class, and our employees must match that standard.”

She paused, studying Wanda closely.

“In terms of skills, age, and appearance—you suit us. But… what the hell is on your forehead?”

Through the thick bangs, the letters occasionally showed.

Wanda let out a heavy sigh and took off the wig. She was already bracing herself for another rejection. But she still had to explain.

“Do you know anything about Henry and Karina K.?”

“I work in the beauty industry—I follow art and fashion. Especially major scandals. Yes, I know about that outrageous artist and his wife, an extreme model. He died, she ended up in a psychiatric clinic. And there was some kind of incident… Before losing her mind, Karina cut some girl’s face, and while running away the girl got hit by a car and can’t walk anymore.”

“She can. And she didn’t cut it—she tattooed her face. A huge one. One that can’t be removed.”

The manager fell silent.

“My condolences. That’s a horrific story.”

A pause.

“If we had a different focus, we could turn this into advertising. But our niche is traditional beauty, glamour…”

She sighed.

“Let’s do this. I genuinely feel sorry for you. And, frankly, a bit ashamed of my questions. We’ll take you on as an intern. But if anything goes wrong—we’ll part ways immediately. No hard feelings.”

“You can start tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Ms. Moore.”

Wanda had been working for three days.

The first two went smoothly. The salon offered significant discounts on services performed by interns—this worked both ways: interns gained experience, while clients got a chance to experience “luxury” for less and show it off on social media.

Such clients were usually not very demanding.

Still, sometimes someone would stare too closely at Wanda’s face. Two people asked about her forehead, but she brushed it off with jokes. One girl refused to sit in her chair and asked for another stylist. But these felt like small things.

Wanda was doing well—cutting hair, making conversation, fitting naturally into the salon’s atmosphere. After the internship, she could earn good money.

She went home happy and came to work in the mornings with genuine anticipation.

By the evening of the third day, her shift was coming to an end. There were no more appointments.

“Mrs. Evans, unfortunately there are no available stylists at the moment,” the administrator explained. “We value you as a client, but you’ll have to wait about half an hour.”

“I’m late for an event. I need my hair done now!”

“With all due respect, all our stylists are busy…”

“And who’s that?” she snapped, pointing at Wanda.

“That’s Wanda. She’s very talented, but she’s an intern. We don’t allow interns to work with VIP clients—”

“I only need styling. She’s not going to cut my hair. If she’s talented—she’ll manage.”

She had already taken a seat.

“Go on. Start.”

Wanda glanced at the administrator. He gave a subtle nod.

She stepped behind the client and began working.

Mrs. Evans watched her closely in the mirror.

A few minutes passed.

And then—

an explosion.

“What’s on her forehead?!”

She jumped up, screaming.

Wanda lowered her eyes.

“Show me! Show me, you bitch! There’s something written there!”

She lunged for Wanda’s hair, trying to lift the bangs.

“Mrs. Evans, this was your initiative. In just a couple of minutes another stylist will be free and—”

“My husband is a politician! We are respectable Christians! I go to the best salon in the city—and I’m being handled by someone with writing all over her face?!”

She kept reaching for Wanda. Wanda stepped back, trying to remain calm.

“Mrs. Evans…” the administrator tried to intervene.

But the client managed to grab a strand of hair.

The wig came off in her hand.

“MISTRESS!!!”

Her voice rose even higher.

“Whose mistress are you, you pervert?! You touched me with those filthy hands!”

The entire salon was staring.

Not at her.

At Wanda.

At the word on her forehead.

 

The shouting didn’t stop. The scene spiraled.

And Wanda was already sitting in the manager’s office.

“I’m sorry. It was a risk. You did great. But as I said—no hard feelings.”

A pause.

“We’ll pay you for the three days of your internship. There will be a bonus at the end of the month—I’ll include you, add a little extra.”

Wanda nodded and left.

Her hopes collapsed again. The job that had started to matter to her was gone.

But what shook her most wasn’t the hysterical woman humiliating her.

It was that the moment the wig came off—

the entire room sided with her.

Wanda didn’t cry. There was nothing left inside.

The payment for three days of work had already come through. It wasn’t enough for rent.

But it was enough to get drunk.

Wanda headed to the bar next door.

Chapter 4

The neighborhood was upscale, the bar expensive. She still had enough money to get drunk—but she might end up completely broke.

Wanda sat at the counter and ordered whiskey.

The bartender poured it. For a split second, his impassive expression faltered—a slight lift of the eyebrow. Wanda had left the wig at the salon.

Fuck it.

She downed half the glass in one gulp, then began idly pushing a large clear ice cube around the glass.

“Can I ask you something?”

A noticeably drunk woman dropped onto the seat beside her.

Around forty, maybe a bit older—it was hard to tell. An evening green dress, an expensive necklace, a cascade of fiery red hair. Huge breasts, full lips, freckles across her skin. Once, she must have been stunning. Now, her attempts to hold onto that beauty only made its fading more obvious.

She might have seemed attractive to Wanda—though not really her type. But she reminded her too much of that screaming bitch who had just cost her the job.

Wanda suddenly felt like getting even.

 

“Are you really a mistress?” the woman asked, watching her with lively curiosity, though her eyelids kept drooping.

“Buy me a drink—maybe I’ll answer,” Wanda said calmly.

Last time, playing this role had ended in disaster. But now she wanted it. Clearly.

“Bartender! Two whiskies for the ladies!”

The redhead clearly had no intention of stopping.

“Yes, I’m a mistress. And my services are expensive.”

“And I’m Irish. And I’ve got a shitload of money. Kelly Bloom.”

She held out her hand.

Wanda looked at her coldly. Her mind snapped into focus. She couldn’t call herself “Wanda Smith.” Even “Mistress Wanda” sounded pathetic. She needed a pseudonym.

And not a cheap one.

The bartender set down fresh glasses and poured Jameson.

Wanda’s eyes caught the label:

Triple distilled smooth Irish whiskey.

“Mistress Smooth,” she said, raising her glass.

“Unusual… Smooth…” Kelly rolled the word on her tongue, like whiskey.

“And the last name is from my husband,” she continued. “A financier. A multimillionaire. A Jew. And an old goat. Leo Bloom.”

Wanda almost wondered whether Kelly understood the connection between Ireland and that name—but only raised an eyebrow slightly.

“He’s a jealous impotent,” Kelly went on. “I don’t even really need men anymore. The past few years, they don’t turn me on at all. But this…” she lifted her breasts in her hands “…can’t just wait for something to start working down there for him.”

She smirked.

“I cheat on him every day. Even tonight I came here looking for some horny dog. But then I found you.”

Wanda silently clinked the ice in her empty glass.

Kelly got the hint.

“Bartender! Two more!”

She leaned closer.

“And you know… all these affairs—they stick to me. I need a release. A cleansing. I used to go to confession—wash it all away and start over.”

A pause.

“And then men stopped turning me on. Not menopause—the body still works. I have orgasms. But they’re… empty. Mechanical.”

She clenched her fingers.

“I need a real peak. Something that burns everything out. It didn’t work with women either. I needed something else. I found one of your colleagues…”

Kelly smirked again.

“She humiliated me, beat me. But it was weak somehow. Probably because for the Irish, getting hit is practically everyday life.”

She paused, then studied Wanda more carefully.

“But you’re different. If a beauty like you did this to herself… what do you do to your clients?”

Wanda stood and leaned close to her ear.

“If you dare—you’ll be begging for mercy. From now on, every time something mechanical happens to your cunt, you’ll be thinking about me.”

A pause.

“And now, you drunken animal—your first task.”

She dictated a number.

+1 (693) 141-5926

Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked toward the exit.

Behind her, she could hear Kelly first whispering the digits, then repeating them aloud, dropping her purse and frantically searching for her phone.

In the subway, as some worn-out man stared at Wanda, clearly imagining himself at her feet, a message came in:

“Mistress Smooth, this is Kelly.”

So she had missed one digit after all—and now she was trying different combinations.

Tomorrow she’d sleep it off and forget everything.

And Wanda would have to look for a job again.

Chapter 5

Wanda woke up with a pounding head.
She hadn’t drunk that much whiskey in a long time.

The morning was already well advanced.
She needed to start looking for work again—hair salons, barbershops, anything.

Her phone vibrated.

Again:
“Mistress Smooth, this is Kelly.”

So she hadn’t calmed down.

Well then. Let the game continue.

Wanda sent a voice message:
“Don’t you dare call here. I’ll block your number, then change mine. Starting this morning, every day you record a voice report of your pussy’s activities from the day before. When, with whom, how, what you thought about. I want yesterday’s report.”

A reply came a few minutes later.
Mistress Smooth… I thought I lost your number. Yesterday, I was thinking about you in the shower… touching myself… Let’s meet. I’ll pay whatever you want…

Wanda replied briefly:
“I speak—you obey. One more suggestion, and you’re blocked.”

The reply:
“Yes, Mistress.”

Wanda went from salon to barbershop.

At the barbershops, tattoos didn’t surprise anyone—her inscription was accepted calmly. Sometimes people asked if she really was a mistress. She joked it off.

But there were no job openings.

Kelly’s reports came regularly. Gradually, they became part of the routine. Sometimes they arrived late, if Kelly had slept in.

One morning, Wanda was talking to the manager of a barbershop.

“Are you a domina?”

“No,” Wanda smiled. “It’s a game that went too far.”

At that moment, a voice message came in—and accidentally played.

“In the evening, I met an Arab in the lobby… he fucked me in every hole until morning… I kept thinking about you…”

Wanda caught herself—not even flinching.

“I do a little side work while I’m still looking for a job,” she added calmly.

The manager looked embarrassed. He promised to call if any vacancies appeared.

On the seventh day, Kelly’s report ended differently:

Mistress Smooth… I keep thinking about you… I’ll give any money. Please come… strap me… at least touch me… I need it… I can’t take it anymore…

Wanda replied by voice:
“You’re a filthy, lustful animal I’m disgusted to deal with. As punishment, your cunt must go seven days without a single touch. Neither yours nor anyone else’s. No exceptions. Then we’ll meet. Break the rule—I’ll find out and leave. Every day—you report. When and how you think about me.”

On the first day, Kelly’s voice trembled and broke into whimpers.
By the last day—it had become quiet, tense, and taut.

On the final day, Wanda sent a message:
“$1000 for preparation here” — including the account number.

The money arrived almost immediately.

Wanda booked a room in a cheap motel for the next day.
She sent Kelly the address and time.
She added:
“No money. No underwear. White cotton dress.”

It was time to summon Mistress Smooth.

 

Chapter 6

Wanda already knew: she wouldn’t go to any more interviews. She wouldn’t humiliate herself explaining where the tattoo came from. She knew that now it wouldn’t be her lowering her eyes—people would be the ones looking away from her.

She knew how the meeting with Kelly would go. She knew there would be others after her.

And she knew that soon she would go and have the tattoo filled in again—faded now after the laser sessions.

Three hours before the meeting, she went into the bathroom and picked up the clippers. For a moment, she paused, looking at her regrown hair—sticking out, stubborn. Once, she had wanted it to reach at least her ear, then her shoulders. That desire had carried something of her former self: hope, uncertainty, an attempt to regain control.

Now none of that remained.

She switched on the clippers and ran them from her left temple. The machine moved steadily onward; hair fell onto her shoulders, onto the floor, clung to her skin. Within a minute, half her head was shaved. She didn’t stop—ran the clippers past the center—and the last strand slipped down.

 

But it wasn’t enough.

The entrance of Mistress Smooth had to be different.

Wanda took off her clothes, tossed them into the wash, gathered the hair from the floor, and took a shower. The water washed away what remained of the past, slowly—she wasn’t in a hurry. Back in the room, she put on the suit Karina had once given her, high boots, a heavy piece of jewelry. Into her bag went the scissors, the clippers, the tattoo machine—everything she would need.

Then she returned to the bathroom.

She lathered her head and began shaving the stubble—slowly, deliberately, pass after pass. She took her time, checking her skin with her fingers, going back over places where even the slightest trace of hair might remain.

Not a single one. Smooth…

 

When she was done, she dried her head and put on a black wig.

 

She took a taxi to the motel.

In the room, she set up her phone on a tripod, carefully choosing the angle. Then she sat in a chair near the entrance, relaxed, but composed—her body held in quiet control. Everything had been thought through.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock.

“Come in.”

Kelly entered and stopped in the middle of the room. Nothing remained of that drunk, uninhibited woman—she was trembling, her breath uneven, her hands faintly shaking. She tried to speak, but the Mistress gave a slight shake of her head—and she fell silent at once.

“On your knees.”

Kelly lowered her gaze and began to pull off her dress, slowly sinking onto the carpet.

“I don’t need your cow’s udder. Put it back on.”

 

She hurriedly pulled the dress back over herself and remained on her knees, eyes down. Her thick cascade of fiery red hair fell over her shoulders—like this, she looked almost devout, the whole scene oddly reminiscent of old master paintings.

“I’m turning on the camera. For half an hour, you will talk about what you are truly ashamed of. If I get bored—I’ll stand up and leave.”

A pause.

“And remember: this recording, and all your messages, can end up with your husband. Or anyone else, if I decide so.”

The camera switched on.

Kelly began to speak. At first—the usual things: affairs, details, men, bodies. It was boring. Mistress yawned deliberately.

“Mistress… I need release… I can’t think…”

She leaned forward slightly—and that was enough.

Kelly broke.

Words poured out, tripping over one another, piling up. She talked about how she had pissed herself in second grade and the boy she liked laughed at her; how she stole money from her mother; how she got drunk at her father’s funeral and vomited straight into the coffin during the farewell; how she fooled around with her brother at fifteen; how she once tried to give herself to a dog.

Whenever she started repeating herself, Mistress clicked her tongue—short, sharp, like a strike.

When the timer went off, Kelly raised her eyes. There was hope in them—tentative, almost frightened.

“Stand up. Lean on the table.”

Kelly obeyed, bending over, spreading her legs. She felt fingers—and her body immediately seized, a sharp jolt running through her, her breath breaking. Then the touch was gone as suddenly as it had come.

A metallic sound.

Kelly opened her eyes. A pair of scissors lay on the table.

She picked them up and turned around—confused, almost childlike.

“Money means nothing. I need payment in what actually matters to you. I’ll take a different kind of gold.”

Mistress slowly removed the wig. A bald, gleaming head. The word on her forehead.

“That’s why they call me Mistress Smooth.”

 

Kelly broke into sobs.

“Please… not my hair… it’s always been my pride… no one has hair like this… what will Leo say… what will people say…”

Mistress Smooth calmly spread her legs, showing there was nothing under her clothes.

“I warned you. You will beg. I’ll spread your confessions. I’ll destroy you if you don’t give me what’s mine.”

Sobbing, Kelly raised the scissors.

The first lock fell.

Mistress Smooth lowered her hand between her legs.

Kelly cut her hair and cried, while Mistress Smooth watched and slowly pleasured herself, never taking her eyes off her. Hair fell everywhere—on the floor, on the table, across her shoulders. With every movement, Kelly cut faster, harsher, as if trying to cut away something more than just length.

When the hair was no longer longer than her shoulders, Mistress Smooth stood.

“Turn around. And keep going.”

Kelly obeyed—and at that moment felt fingers inside her again. Her body shook; the orgasm came instantly, sharp, almost painful. She kept cutting while Mistress Smooth took her from behind, sorting through the cut strands on the table as if counting gold coins.

 

When she had almost no strength left, and almost no hair left on her head, Mistress Smooth pulled away and examined the result.

“Good. But the final touch is mine.”

She seated Kelly in a chair, told her to touch herself gently, and began to work. The scissors moved with precision: a high cap, a clean line curving above the ear, everything below shaved down to nothing. Then foam, a straight razor, bare skin without a single hair.

 

 

“Smooth” she said quietly.

“Smooth…” Kelly repeated, as if tasting the word.

Mistress Smooth took out the tattoo machine and placed a small letter S behind her ear. Kelly barely reacted—she was still inside it, still lost in the process.

 

Mistress Smooth gathered the hair into a single large pile in the center of the room, lifted Kelly up, and kissed her.

“I’m leaving you your gold. Tomorrow you’ll transfer whatever amount you consider appropriate. Whether we meet again depends on it. Same account.”

Kelly collapsed into the pile of her own hair and buried herself in it like autumn leaves. It overwhelmed her—deep, powerful, complete. She got what she wanted.

She was reborn.

 

In the morning, Wanda was already thinking about how to promote “Mistress Smooth” online when a notification came in—$10,000—and a message:

“I hope to see you again soon.”