The Frill Of It

The crunch of dirt underfoot doesn't hide the louder sound of your heels on the floor. The room is empty, it echoes as you walk. It is dark. You can only just see.

You are alone.

Probably.

Being here was your idea; your fantasy. Making it a reality is at the same time the most exciting and most terrifying feeling.

Walking here, dressed as he demanded the single most thrilling thing you have done. Until next time. Your inner slut, given reign at last, meant that you had walked the dark street as if you belonged there, exotic, exciting, a feast for the eye.

And the looks of the strangers that had passed you, desire in the eyes of some, danger in the eyes of others; recognition in the eyes of a very few.

******************************

Online. It had all started online. A little bit of internet shopping on a bored Friday afternoon. Browsing the lingerie section had almost been an afterthought.

Normally, you wouldn't dream of wearing such things. They just weren't your style. Or were they? I mean, what were you doing there? On a work day?

But then the message had pinged into your Inbox. Somehow you had violated the firms' internet code. The IT Department knew what you had been doing. And they had informed your boss.

Christ, your Boss! That man, everyone knew, was a bastard. There was something in his eyes, something dark. A voice in your head had whispered, 'It takes one,.........to know one.'

******************************

There is a chair in the middle of the room. It is covered in stains and rust. You don't want to sit on it in case it makes your skirt dirty.

Not that it's much of a skirt anyway. It's so short that your stocking tops are on display; a clear view of the creamy skin at the top of your thighs is interrupted only by the dark suspender straps attached to your nylons.

You're pretty sure that no-one can quite see your g-string panties. Not yet anyway. The eyes of the few people who dared to look directly at you had been drawn to your black basque, to your eyes.

The memory of it arouses you. But you don't want to be too aroused. Not yet anyway.

******************************

The meeting had been fairly short.

'Something for the Girlfriend?' His voice had a superior sneer. Yet, he spoke with authority. 'I don't think so. Not from that site.'

He was good looking, for an older man; the sort of man who belonged in a fine suit. And he could afford them. He had the ability and the attitude to go with it. Just the right side of arrogant. Attractive, in a slightly scary way.

He looked at you. His eyes reading you. 'You've got one chance', he said. 'Tell me the truth, and I think we can find a solution to this .....problem.'

He paused, leaned forward, his voice quiet, his eyes intense. 'Lie to me, and you'll be out of a job.'

He smiled. The smile of a predator who has his prey by the balls.

******************************

Yes, he had you by the balls, and just to prove it they were shaved now, at his insistence.

And your cock, wrapped in lace, stiffening, uncoiling, in your scanty panties. If you are not careful you will tent the front of your skirt, and that simply won't do.

The desire to touch yourself, for release, is almost too much. You want to feel your varnished fingernails scrape your length; to feel the cold air on your heated flesh, to watch it grow and harden, a physical manifestation of the lust within, but that, for the moment, is forbidden.

Not just your cock and your balls - your body too, is freshly shaved; waxed, where appropriate. You have been transformed and as a result your mind is a turmoil of desire and fear.

You stand still. Are there eyes upon you? One leg is bent at the knee, your stiletto cocked; a practiced move, designed to draw the eye up your long, smooth, legs.

Practiced at home, never before in the real world. Christ, your heart is pounding.

As a distraction you apply a last circle of lipstick. In the small compact mirror, your mouth makes a perfect, red, O.

******************************

Something about him made you tell him. Everything. All the secret desires. Even your fear, and desire, of being caught. Especially, your fear, and desire, of being caught.

And while you told him, he was cool, calm, collected. He just listened and looked at you. Drinking you in.

You weren't cool, though. Telling someone, telling him, was horny. You weren't calm, either. Talking about it, brought a hot flush to your cheeks. And you certainly weren't collected. Even through your suit, the hardening of your cock was obvious.

When you had finished, he had looked you in the eye once more.

'This is what is going to happen,' he said. 'You will leave my office now and go straight to the toilet and remove your underwear. You will never, ever, wear male underwear to the office again.'

He continued. 'When you leave work today you will buy some feminine, lacy knickers. Something with a frill, and tomorrow, you will wear those to work, instead.'

'Don't fail,' he said, 'because I will be checking.'

You blushed at the thought. And grew harder.

He dismissed you with a wave of the hand. With some difficulty you stood and as you turned to leave, he spoke once more.

'No doubt you will resort to wanking yourself off as you remember this conversation later on. When you do, make sure that you eat your own cum.' His eyes met yours.

'Get used to being the dirty little slut that you are.'

******************************

A noise.

You turn.

He is there.

Suited, with shiny, polished shoes. He removes his jacket, hangs it on a hook on the wall. He has been here before. Perhaps even done, this, before.

He rolls up his sleeves revealing powerful arms.

Oh God.

You want him.

There is a glint in his eye, a smile of recognition on his lips. It is the bulge at the front of his trousers that tells you exactly what he has recognised, what the glint might mean.

You are the object of his desire, just as he is the object of yours.

Your cock-head can no longer be restrained by your flimsy knickers. It pokes up and out. A low groan escapes your throat.

He has seen you. He stares and smiles. He is pleased. His eyes devour you. Then his hand reaches down and squeezes his own cock and balls.

'Get your cock out. Wank it for me'. His voice is low, controlled. Firm, with a throaty desire.

Quickly, you take off your skirt, and pull your flimsy knickers to one side allowing your cock to grow to it's full length.

At his command you step out of them. They catch on your shoe and you unhook them with one hand.

Now he can see how hard you are, how your balls are ringed, how you have shaved for tonight. For him.

You don't want to leave your knickers on the floor so you grip the thong with your teeth. From your handbag you take out the bottle and oil up your throbbing stiffness, your hand gliding gently, sliding, soft, then harder.

Red nails tease hard flesh. You can feel his eyes on you.

Now it is he who groans. His hand moves to his fly, then stops.

'You do it'.

As you walk over he loosens his tie, undoes the buttons on his shirt. Your hands trail down his chest. You undo his belt, his trouser button.

His briefs are full, bulging obscenely. You pull them down. Freeing his growing tool. As your oiled hand grasps his stalk and begins to move up and down, you hear him sigh with pleasure.

You have one hand on his cock, one on your own. You rub the two cock-heads together. They slip and slide with the pace of your wanking hands.

Your eyes meet – a last moment of equality, perhaps – but you both know that equality is not what either of you want. He nods.

Then he cups your jaw with his hand, gentle, but firm. He pulls the knickers from your mouth and pushes his thumb into your mouth. It is thick, stubby. Your first taste of him. You tongue it, greedily.

His grip strengthens. He forces you down, then down further. You kneel at his feet. You look up to see him sniffing your panties, his eyes are shut. Then he throws them to one side, and looks down on you.

There is a glint in his eyes. A hunger. And a cruel smile on his lips.

Small stones ladder your stockings. He removes his hand from your face, and puts it on the back of your head. You know what you have to do. Your tongue snakes around his hardness, Your red lips caress his cock-head.

He sighs. 'Bitch. Suck it.'

There is no denying his tone. Your mouth opens wide, he slides in. Your are hot, wet and welcoming. He pulls on the back of your head. Pulls your hair. He does not care if you gag. He wants to be all the way in, and then he is. And then out again. He glistens as the moonlight catches the mixture of oil and saliva on his flesh.

In once more. Now the imaginings are gone. You can taste him for real at last, you can smell him. He is clean and dirty all at the same time. He is a man. A man with his cock in your mouth.

Your nipples are peeking over the top of your basque. He takes the opportunity to squeeze them.

Hard.

You moan around him.

From nowhere a clamp appears on one and then the other. Tiny teeth bite into your willing flesh. As the pain grows so does your own cock. The clamps are chained together, and when he pulls on the chain you cannot help but move forward, taking his cock deeper.

You are vocal now. You can't help it. The moans caught in your throat vibrate around his bigness. And yes, he is satisfyingly big.

God, it feels good. Ecstasy, the pleasure and the pain, the desire and the degradation.

You have one hand on his pole, one on your own, teasing yourself as your mouth engulfs him.

He controls the pace by pulling the chains on your tits, faster and slower. Easing himself in and out of your willing mouth, taking his pleasure. His hand tangles in your hair pulling himself deeper. He is in you. You surround him.

You can't help it. You've waited so long for this. Your own hand becomes a blur on your cock. His legs step inside yours, gently kicking your thighs further apart, your knees scrape on the dirty floor.

He groans again, louder. You feel him swell in your mouth and your own cocks pulses in response.

'Yes', he says, and you moan.

He is really enjoying this, and so are you.

'Good Girl', he says, and you cock pulses.

'Good little cum-slut'.

Suddenly you are beyond control, beyond restraint, the images of your mind and the images of your new reality overwhelm you. You are going to cum, and you are going to cum hard.

Spunk jets out of your cock, onto the floor.

Onto his polished shoe, onto yourself.

It is hot on your hand; creamy, running in spurts over your stockings.

He grunts. You know he has seen you cumming.

He pulls out of your mouth. Something about the glint in his eye tells you that he has not finished with you yet. He wipes his cock on your cheeks, smears it across your lipstick. What will happen now?

'Lick it up.'

You hesitate.

'Now'. And he slaps you.

You lean forward and clean your cum dribbles from his shoe. Then he makes you lick the floor too. Dirt and your salty spunk mingled together.

Christ, it makes you hard again, and you know that he can see it.

'Dirty tart', he says.

You are glad. You know that a dirty tart is what he wants.

Using the chain on your nipples he forces you up. His hand grasps the root of your cock, hard. His skin is dry and cool on you. He is not to be denied.

Pulling on the chain, and your cock, he forces you across to the chair. His pace is fast and you can barely keep up. Your thighs, encased in nylon, rub against each other as your shoes clitter-clatter across the floor.

His hand on your cock feels like it belongs there. In that moment you know that he owns you. A small whimper of joy escapes your lips and the small smile on his lips tell you that he has not missed its significance.

His cock is still spearing out from his trousers. Whatever he is about to do to you is filling him with desire.

He sits you on the chair, fastens your legs in chains that are only now visible. Your hands are fastened behind your back. You can move, but you cannot get up, you cannot walk. You are His.

Another sound. From behind you. Is there someone else there?

He steps forward, tweaking your nipples again, and suddenly you don't care. Once more his cock is in your mouth. Open perhaps with shock, now opening wider in desire.

He fucks your face, his hands guiding and controlling your head. Fast, then slow. Pulling your hair, slow then fast. You gag, but he doesn't care. This is about his pleasure.

Your lipstick has smeared onto his cock and you can taste it on your tongue. You can feel that he is beginning to pulse. His cock is throbbing.

He is close. You moan around him, adding your desire to the swirl of your tongue. You are willing him to cum.

He looks down. He can see his tool sliding between your red lips, into your mouth and down your throat. He can see into your eyes. Your eyes are talking to him. 'Fuck me' you say. 'Any way you want.'

He spurts down your throat. Onto your tongue.

On the outstroke another spunk-jet splashes on to your face. He points his cock down. The final spurts cover your own cock and balls which are straining with new found desire.

Suddenly, he kneels between your legs. His hand grasps the root of your cock wanking you. His mouth descends. His touch is so..............

..................gentle.

You cannot believe it. His mouth, on your knob. Warm; wet; his tongue teasing, his mouth sucking you in.

It takes your breath away.

Then his mouth is gone, as if it were never there. Has he done it for his pleasure or simply for your lubrication?

His hand wanks your spunky, oiled cock. You are harder, and he wanks you harder.

'Please...' you whisper. He knows what you want.

He reaches up and unclamps your nipples. Pain floods them. It is too good, and it is too much. Your mouth is open but no sound can emerge.

'Cum' he says, looking directly into your eyes. 'Cum now'.

And you do.

Your cream spunks up onto your basque; spurts, wetly, onto your thighs, gushes and dribbles, all over his hand, which grips you, tightly.

You moans fill the room. You slump forward, but only as gar as the chains will allow.

Then he stands, puts his hands to his mouth and licks it clean. His eyes are on you as your breathing returns to normal. Cumming has never quite felt like that before.

He begin to dress. He buttons hid shirt, zips himself up. He Smiles. Pats your cheek.

He turns, takes his jacket from the wall. Puts it on and then he is gone.

Is he coming back?

Is he bringing someone else back?

Or has he left you, tied there, until some stranger finds you...........