Meeting Martha

There is one wonderful thing about waiting for your submissive to arrive, you know she won't be late, well not unless she has a really good reason or really enjoys pain, degradation and humiliation. Today, however, I was impatient. Why? Because I'd never met Martha before. We had been playing on-line for almost two years now, but really being in control of her, her responses and reactions beyond all doubt, actually in the flesh, that had lain far beyond my wildest dreams; we lived so far apart. I knew exactly what she looked like, right down to the last intimate detail. I had never demanded photographs for the sake of curiosity or as proof of her obedience, ultimately you need faith and trust, but I had used them to humiliate her. My collection showed her in the most outrageous of poses often with a selection of sex toys and other objects sprouting from various orifices or, sometimes, covered in lipstick scrawled obscenities. I had my camera and a lipstick handy, ready for her stay.

The collection of toys that I had assembled was completely functional but a little improvised. We were only meeting because I had been despatched to the States on business. When I had mentioned that destination I was to be dispatched to Martha had declared that I was being sent to 'her town,' declaring with enthusiasm that it was 'a sign.' So she had been the one to propose that I took charge of her physically and, at my whim, used or abused her for my own sensuous gratification. Dominant I might be but previously I had been too scared to even consider such a possibility: I know something precious when I own it, our partnership was one thing I had not the least inclination to spoil and Martha's enduring obedience was priceless so far as I was concerned. Still, once the offer had been made, it was an opportunity that I could no longer even imagine passing up. The way US airports scan luggage though I had not dared to pack toys and so I had had to assemble a collection of instruments for delivering pleasure and pain locally.

I had ordered a cab and a very bewildered driver had taken me to a huge shopping complex, literally a sprawl, right out on the edge of town. First I visited a builders store; screw-eyes, dowel, some dinky brass fixtures, candles, a well insulated ice-bucket, a plastic bowl, a packet of clothes pegs, pins they called them, and a small hand saw had all gone into my trolley. At a vast household emporium I had added: soft cotton rope, a wooden spoon, a ball of string, two toothbrushes, shoe laces, a stiff shoe brush, six dog collars and a bundle of garden canes to my collection. A sports store had supplied me with me practice golf balls. Finally, an outsized pharmacy had provided me with an equally outsized tub of petroleum jelly; Martha was going to suffer at my hands but I did not want her becoming sore. I had bought a sleep mask at the airport on my way out, in case you thought that I had forgotten a blindfold.

After I returned to my hotel I made a foray to a local sex shop; bookstore indeed. Nipple-clamps, a string of beads each slightly larger than the last, a small but powerful bullet and a rabbit all went into my basket. I really wanted a wand but they aren't cheap and, even if I had the nerve to pack it, the US voltage would make it useless when I returned home. Once I had these items I was all set, leather belts and a silk tie were packed before I even left home. A hotel room is not the ideal place to amuse yourself with a new sex slave but it would have to do. Anyway me, Martha and my camera could go out for walks whilst they made up my room. Yes, lucky me indeed, Martha was staying from Friday evening until Monday morning, sixty four glorious hours. I didn't ask what she had done with her hubby, I knew little about her domestic situation except that Martha regarded being instructed to seduce hubby as a punishment rather than a pleasure.

Whilst I waited I flipped through some photographs of Martha on my tablet, they made my already almost painfully stiff prick twitch in my trousers an ooze clear sticky goo. She was twenty years younger than I, in her early thirties. Her dark brown, almost black, hair was thick and lustrous, framing her face with natural waves and not quite falling into her dark brown eyes. The origins of her forebears were clearly Mediterranean, her olive skin attested to that and a love of pasta was alluded to by her ample breasts with their almost brown nipples and her well rounded bottom. Her mons was padded, her labia crinkled and prominent, pouting proudly just asking for clamps or clips to be applied. When we first began to play she had sported a dense bush of black pubic hair but for well over a year I had delighted in sending her to have this waxed away regularly.

Through the wonders of the internet I had found a delightful place for her to have her pubic ripped from her flesh. They waxed not only her pudendum and inside the crack of her buttocks but finished off their handiwork by removing any stray hairs with tweezers. That just had to hurt. For the three days before she was waxed I would make Martha go without orgasm, edging herself four times each day, thus ensuring that when she arrived to be waxed she was on a sexual hair-trigger. And, by the end of each of her appointments, either despite the pain, or possibly because of it, she was always really wet and horny and desperate to masturbate. To make things worse for her, once the waxing and tweezering was completed the girl rubbed a thick, soothing, perfumed lotion into Martha's sex and, whilst she was careful never to touch Martha's clitoris or the entrance to her sex, her usual girl always caught her anus with a finger just before the end. This, Martha had confessed to me, never failed to make her gasp with pure lust, leaving her more needful than ever. Martha had also confided that after the girl had triggered her that way, if she were ever to commence massaging her clitoris Martha would be completely powerless to stop her, would almost certainly come and probably in record time.

So successful were the effects of imposing this style of orgasm denial upon Martha that I had had her spent the previous two days without orgasm also edging herself four times each day. On the Wednesday she had had to bring herself to the brink of a climax with her vibrator, wait ten minutes and then repeat the procedure. As she had come several times on the Tuesday morning, a delightful session I had led her through on Yahoo, I knew that on Wednesday she would not feel all that horny. Well even by bedtime Wednesday that had all changed and she was all fired up once again.

I had her perform her last double edging in bed immediately before she tried to settle to sleep and then ordered her to play with her nipples for five minutes afterwards. Apparently it had taken her a good while to settle down after that as she tossed and turned, longing to slide a hand between her slippery thighs.

Aware that her need would have built as she slept I had made Thursday even more intensely arousing. As I had anticipated she had woken hot and horny so I had her take herself to the brink using just her fingers whilst wearing thick ski gloves. It might not sound sexy but it is protracted and cumbersome leaving poor Martha so frustrated that she is almost angry. At lunch time she had had to repeat the process in a stall of the restroom at work. I don't usually make her masturbate in public toilets - sordid is the only word for such activities - but our impending session together had made it a special occasion so not only had I ordered her to masturbate there but demanded that, apart from the ski gloves, she be naked too: very sordid indeed, almost squalid.

Martha's third session of edging had to be undertaken as soon as she arrived home, carried out in the kitchen just wearing the gloves, of course, heels, stockings and suspenders; bright red heels and suspenders, black stockings with a seam. I prefer this over making her go naked because if anyone sees her dressed like that they know instantly that it must be all about sexual gratification. Her kitchen has no blinds and the room can be overlooked from a local apartment block. When I order this Martha has admitted that she crawls along the floor, almost wriggling along on her belly, just as quickly as she can and secretes herself under the kitchen table.

Thursday's final session of edging had been set immediately before bed, with Martha sitting in a chair, legs spread wide as she could manage, watching herself masturbate in the long mirror next to the shower with her horse tail butt-plug protruding from her arse and circles of lipstick around her nipples. She had had to send me two pictures of that, a full length shot and a close up of her wet pussy. Not only did her red-pink lips glisten with her copious womanly secretions but thick white juices were oozing from her pussy, dribbling down the curve of her slot and puddling on the rim of her butt-plug.

This morning I had changed the nature of her tease once again, well variety is the spice of life. Delight of delights and a favourite tease of mine, she had to bring herself as close as she dare to a climax by rubbing a silk scarf back and forth between the lips of her sex. This procedure has to be entirely hands free as she needs her hands to draw the scarf back and forth. As a consequence, even when Martha is unbearably randy it takes her an age. Of course after two days of serious edging it was, to all intents, a form of torture, leaving her soaking, desperate and close to tears.

For her journey to work I had ordered her bra and pantyless with both her medium butt-plug and her Ben-Wa balls inserted and insisted that she used public transport for the journey. This I know she hates, leaving the car behind makes her anxious, having no panties on makes her feel really insecure and being braless is really uncomfortable; all that Mediterranean pasta I expect. I had never combined all three together before but I knew she would be in a state by the end of the journey and when Martha gets 'into a state' like that it causes her juices to gush and she clamps down on the butt-plug involuntarily, over and over again. Those repeated reminders of her anal invader, I had discovered long ago, made her wetness pool all the more rapidly and, this morning, she would have soon been worrying about making a dark damp patch on her skirt. Following my instruction she would have been wearing a light grey cotton skirt, so a wet spot would certainly have shown: I like to think of these little extra details, pile the pressure on, make her squirm and writhe with anxiety. I had left her a choice, I am after all, deep down inside, generous of sprit: apply her bare bottom to the seat of the bus last sat on by Lord knows whom wearing heaven knows what or sit on her skirt and risk making a mark.

Once she had arrived at work she was permitted to put on a bra but even with that necessary concession to her decency she had the problem of what to do with the toys: risk being caught washing and rinsing them in a basin in the restroom or dump the plug into a plastic bag and pray that no one could smell the thing. I know she can't bear to keep the plug or the balls in all day long so it was a dilemma that she would have to face up to at some point during her day.

Martha's lunchtime edging would have been fun too, another long session with the silk scarf and this time I had specified she could do this anywhere but in the restrooms. This usually meant she had to lock herself away in a store cupboard or hide in a dark corner of the records library in the basement. Wherever she went a previous disobedience had earned her an extra difficulty. She had come twice on Sunday when I had told her to come just once, so wherever she chose for this edging it had be done with the doors to the room left unlocked. Having to edge by rubbing the scarf between the lips of her sex whilst wearing her skirt was going to make it a long slow process indeed. Moreover behind unlocked doors, totally free of panties she would hardly dare to take off her skirt for her edging, or would she? I could never tell with Martha, sometimes she was unusually bold, brazen even.

Ten seconds before six, just ten little seconds to go now, the butterflies in my tummy were performing acrobatics. Still that could be nothing to how Martha felt at that instant. I expected she was stood outside the door of my room watching the sweep hand of a virtual clock on her cell phone. Knock too soon or too late and that would earn her fifty spanks to each cheek of her bottom with another spank to each cheek for every second that she was early or late. The spanks I had warned her about, but would I select the spoon, my belt or a cane to chastise her? That, together with the likely indignity of the position she would have to adopt for her spanking, those were the uncertainties she would be concentrating upon with. I lit a candle for her.

As Martha stood in the corridor waiting, arm probably poised to knock she would certainly be nervous, probably scared, possibly terrified and definitely dripping with her own sexual secretions. At that particular instant she must be feeling very vulnerable indeed. I had left my pass to the spa and pool of the hotel at the reception for her, tucked in an envelope. As she waited outside of my room she had to be naked, only covered by a white, hotel issue, towelling robe; her clothes and bag left behind in a locker in the changing rooms with the key lodged safely beyond her reach; handed to reception in the envelope to be kept for me to collect. The only possessions she would have with her were the butt-plug in the left pocket of the robe and her Ben-Wa balls in the right pocket. Her money, credit cards, keys and, most importantly of all these days, her phone were locked securely away in the changing rooms in the basement of the hotel. Immediately before Martha had ascended to my floor she would have carried out her third edging of the day, so I was confident that at this instant not only was she desperate to be let into my room but also on fire with lust and desire.

"Enter, it's not locked" I cried out in response to her confident knock, 'damn she had left me with no excuse to spank her right away.' "Shut the door and drop the robe on the floor." I called as I heard her step through the door. "Don't move. There is a gag on the shelf by the door, fit it good and tight, then don the sleep mask and only after that come down the passage into the room proper." Well it is so much more humiliating to be poked and prodded by someone you have never even seen before. To have your most intimate of places exposed to the gaze a stranger who will then examine them minutely. To suffer nips, pinches, slaps and spanks from someone who you only know as a row of letters on a computer screen. All the while realising that ultimately this person is going to invade and perhaps stretch each and everyone of your orifices. You with no knowledge of just who is doing these things to you, what they are doing them with, what they might do next or how long they will continue to tease and torment you.