A Slave to Pleasure Pt. 02

Author's note: thank you so much for the positive reception on my very first submission!! I'm so glad you're along for the ride.

Part II:

My hands shook as I unlocked our front door and walked slowly back to my bedroom to prepare for my 19th birthday celebrations. It had taken a few weeks to save up the money for my car, so my parents agreed to have our small family dinner on the day I finally gained my independence. Little did they know that I had started on another journey with our 65-year-old neighbor, Mr. Robertson, who had pledged to train me into his "perfect little slave" after fucking my face earlier that afternoon.

I shed my clothes, leaving Mr. Robertson's tank top in a pile next to my bed and made my way into the bathroom for a shower. I inspected my body in the mirror and was startled by a series of faint hickeys that had formed all over my tits: in the moment, I hadn't realized how hard the old man had been sucking on me, and I flushed bright red as I surveyed the damage. Luckily, all of the hickeys would be easily covered by the halter top I planned to wear. I was a bit outraged but more than a little aroused by the blatant possessiveness of the old man's marks all over my skin.

My phone buzzed, and I picked it up preparing to finally answer a barrage of texts from Kelli. I was surprised to see it was a text from a private number. I opened it and read:

Wear your birthday gift to your party. Make sure you use plenty of soap in the shower, too--you're a dirty girl.

I whirled around, looking around for cameras or some sort of surveillance device. How could my new master possibly know what I was doing in here unless he had cameras inside my bedroom and bathroom? And clearly he hadn't been bluffing about bugging my phone if he knew about the party. I shuddered with a mix of fear and arousal: it was electrifying to know that he could see me constantly, always monitoring my activities. He even knew which pillow I used as a grinding board when I masturbated. The perverse intimacy of that connection made me feel even closer to the old man who now owned my body.

I smiled in no particular direction and waved, then did a little twirl before the mirror. Realizing that I could do whatever I wanted, I raised my hands to my tits and gently began to massage my nipples. A soft moan escaped my lips as I pinched the erect buds, which were still sore from Mr. Robertson's rough fondling earlier in the afternoon. My phone buzzed again, and my breathed hitched as I scrambled to see my master's reply:

I told you that you are not to touch yourself in any way without my permission. This is your first strike--three strikes and I promise you will regret it you little slut.

I made an innocent face in the mirror and released my nipples reluctantly. I would test my limits, but not now. I needed to focus and get ready before Kelli and my parents arrived; I would have to play the role of good daughter for a few hours before switching gears to social butterfly mode for my informal birthday celebration with Kelli's friends. I was well liked, but known for being a bit of a prude unless I got really wasted. Compared to Kelli, I was the picture of chastity: she'd always had a reputation for being a total slut, but she had leveraged it into a position of social power at our private high school and into college. I admired her ability to use her body to get what she wanted, and recently, I had started to dress more revealingly to follow in her footsteps.

I showered, did my makeup, and blow-dried my hair without any more interruptions. Kelli was still MIA, but the drive from her house could take as long as an hour depending on traffic so I didn't want to bother her with texts while she drove. I threw on a thin pink robe and walked over to my closet to pick out an outfit. Mr. Robertson had instructed me to wear my birthday gift from him: a black tank top with "Daddy's Little Slut" written across the breasts in bold, white letters, but I was hesitant to wear such a bold proclamation of my sex life in public. I perused my closet and pulled out a couple of pairs of shorts and a black leather mini skirt. I tried on a few options, but when I put on the skirt, my phone buzzed again:

The skirt. With the tank top I gave you. No excuses.

My face flushed, and once again, I was faced with a decision: give in to my shame, or accept my submissive, kinky side and blindly follow my master's orders. I remembered the blissful, erotic feeling of being face-fucked by Mr. Robertson, and my decision was made for me. I had no choice but to obey.

I put on a black push-up bra and pulled the "Daddy's Little Slut" tank over my head. I completed the look with pig tails and some platform Mary Janes to try and disguise the kinkiness of the shirt with a Lolita aesthetic, but I worried what my friends and family would say. I pushed the thought down: pleasing my master would have to come first.

Just as I was finishing off the final touches on my makeup, I heard the front door fly open with Kelli's characteristic enthusiasm. We'd been close a ince pre school, so she walked into my house as freely as if it were her own. My best friend was at my bathroom door in seconds, bounding down the hallway on her long, tan legs with strides that made her curly golden hair bounce and shine. I'd always been jealous of her 5'10" frame, athletic build, and supermodel legs. The boys had made a professional sport out of sneaking a look up her short skirts during school, and more than once, she had let them.

Kelli stood behind me in the doorway, appraising my outfit over my shoulder in the mirror:

"Damn, not even trying to hide that you're a slut anymore?" she shot at me with a half-joking tone.

I tried to squash my embarrassment, feeling grateful that my just-applied rouge disguised most of the flush that warmed my face. I turned to face her and nonchalantly shot back:

"What, you think it's too much? You outfit might as well spell it out: w-h-o-r-e." As I spelled the word 'whore,' I gestured to a different point on her tall frame with every letter: her muscular, tanned thighs on full display in a white mini skirt; the bright pink straps of her underwear slung up over her hip bones; her navel bare to show off her new navel ring; and each of her her small, pointed nipples poking out through her tight baby-pink tube top.

"Oh stop," she retorted, "You're just jealous. Who's daddy?"

I turned back to the mirror and put on another coat of mascara to disguise my nerves as I lied: "Nobody, it's rhetorical. Makes the guys imagine themselves as daddy, you know? Might get me some free shit."

"Speaking of..." Kelli pulled a weed pen from her bag and we eagerly passed it back and forth: for my part, I was happy for the well-timed distraction, and to have some THC in my system to calm my nerves.

Six pm rolled around and my parents finally showed up for dinner, each of them loaded down with takeout bags from all of my favorite places just like Mr. Robertson said. Despite the revealing nature of my and Kelli's outfits, my parents didn't say a word about how we were dressed. I think by this point, they knew we were adults and there wasn't much they could do to control what we wore. My behavior with boys was another story, but when I turned 18, I had put my foot down and demanded that my parents let me go shopping with Kelli. Her revealing style had quickly rubbed off on me, and after a few fights, my parents had stopped commenting on my clothes and allowed me that one piece of adulthood.

After dinner, Kelli and I quickly made excuses to slip out the door and hop into her red convertible Mustang, a gift from one of her ex-step fathers, who had always seemed a bit more fond of the daughter than the mother. I wanted to take my new Bug, but Kelli insisted we take her car so I could get good and drunk at my birthday celebration.

And I did get good and drunk that night--so drunk that I barely remember it. Kelli and her horny guy friends poured liquor down my throat from the minute we arrived at their run-down frat house, and I vaguely remember licking tequila from Kelli's naked abdomen as she squirmed beneath me on a countertop.

I miraculously woke up in my own bed the next morning, still half-drunk and fully dressed in my party outfit. I checked my phone to find a dozen text messages: most were from Kelli, lamenting her own hangover and ill-advised hookup with the ringleader of the frat boys, but two texts were from the protected number that I knew was Mr. Robertson.

The delicate muscles of my pussy clenched as I skipped over Kelli's contact and went straight for my master's latest updates. In spite of everything that had led to this point, I found myself wildly turned on that I woke up to commands from my perverted old neighbor.

I opened the contact and was surprised to see a long paragraph that dominated almost the entire screen. I scrolled up to see the attached video first and my blood ran cold at the thumbnail: it was a screen-recording of a Snapchat, and I could clearly see my bare tits before I even clicked the play button. I opened the video and watched my visibly intoxicated self dance topless on a countertop in the frat house basement. Kelli, also topless, joined me on the table, and after a moment she knelt down and trailed playful kisses down my chest as the boys hooted and whistled. Encouraged by the boys' cheering, she gripped one of my breasts while I giggled and feigned protest. I blushed as I watched Kelli take my nipple into her mouth on video, and despite the fact that I was obviously drunk, in public, and on camera, I could see the pleasure on my face as Kelli worked my nipple with her tongue before releasing it with a loud 'pop' that was audible even over the thunderous cheers from the male onlookers just off camera. The video ended abruptly, my face frozen mid-moan in an obvious state of arousal.

My fingers trembled as I swiped back to read through the wall of text Mr. Robertson had sent along with the video:

I found evidence of two rules broken in this video: 1. you removed your birthday present, which I explicitly told you to wear, and 2. you engaged in sexual activity with another woman without my permission. I will admit that I loved watching your friend suck on those beautiful tits--perhaps we can invite her to play once you've learned to respect the rules. But for now, you have managed to earn strike two and strike three in one fell swoop. Part one of your punishment will be public humiliation since you seem to enjoy baring your body to strangers. Wear a skirt and a tight white shirt to class, but no bra or panties. I want you to sit through your day with your arms crossed and your legs clenched, praying nobody sees those heavy tits or your sweet young pussy. Come over after class to receive the rest of your punishment.

I had no idea how Mr. Robertson found that video, but I was strangely unsurprised that he'd found a way to trace my activities throughout the night. The video was humiliating and I cringed at the realization that it had probably already circulated through any number of group chats. I'd never made a fool of myself this publicly before and I knew it would spread like wildfire given how popular Kelli was around our college. There was no telling how many of my classmates had already seen my tits this morning, and now I was supposed to show up with no bra or panties?

I went to my bathroom for a quick shower since I was already running late. After I had rinsed the sweat and dried tequila from my skin, I toweled off and chose efficiency over appearance by tugging my unruly hair into a high ponytail at the back of my head. I walked to my closet and began to pull out a standard outfit: jeans, a sweatshirt, and a neon sports bra that I made a show of displaying around the room before pulling it over my head. Before I even had a chance to fasten the straps, my phone pinged with another text from Mr. Robertson's protected number. It was a screenshot of an unsent text message, and I froze when I realized the numbers in the 'recipient' field belonged to both of my parents. The message contained no words, just two thumbnails: the video of me dancing topless with Kelli, and the video of me sucking dick in my parent's driveway.

My master wasn't bluffing: if I didn't wear what he told me, he would send those videos and get me kicked out of my parents house. Tears of frustration filled my eyes even as I clenched my legs against an unbidden wave of arousal. How could this man manipulate me this way, and why was I starting to get off on the games he was playing?

Almost without thinking, I removed the sports bra and walked back to my closet. Knowing that my master would demand a slutty outfit, I picked out a tight white and pink striped polo and a white pleated mini skirt. Suddenly aware of the fact that Mr. Robertson was watching me, I walked slowly back to the bedroom and took my time pulling on the clothes. When I was done, I spent several minutes arranging my tits and adjusting my skirt in front of the mirror, making sure to tweak my nipples so they stood out sharply through the thin fabric of my polo. My phone buzzed again:

Perfect, you little slut. Better hurry, you'll be late.

I checked the time and swore: he was right, I would already be at least 15 minutes late to my first class of the day. I had no time to reconsider my outfit before sprinting out the door.

20 minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot at my community college and flew out of my car towards the lecture hall. As expected, I was already 15 minutes late, and I felt air rushing under my skirt as I half-ran through the parking lot. A sudden gust of wind flipped my skirt up partially, and I stopped in my tracks as the air flowed freely across my exposed pussy. I glanced around and noticed a couple of boys snickering and pointing in my direction, and I flushed bright red at the realization that they had just seen my entire ass when the wind blew up my skirt. Humiliated, I put my head down and clutched my skirt to my thighs as I continued to speed-walk towards my first class.

It was just my luck that my morning class was a packed general education math class in the biggest lecture hall on campus. I stood outside the entrance and was chagrined to hear my professor already lecturing, his deep voice amplified to fill the 100-student amphitheater. I stood out of sight and took a moment to survey my barely-concealed body. My nipples stood out obviously through the light fabric of my shirt, and the skirt had hitched up to the point that it barely covered my ass. I pulled the skirt down as far as I could manage, but there was nothing to be done about my tits, which jiggled and shook with even the slightest movement. I crossed one arm over my chest, took a deep breath, and pulled open the door to the lecture hall.

The professor halted mid-sentence and turned to inspect the latecomer to his class. He was painfully clear at the beginning of the semester that tardiness would not be tolerated, and I felt every eye in the class on me as the professor glared in my direction, his stern eyes raking over my body before settling on my face:

"Do us all a favor and find a seat, young lady. I'll speak to you after class."

I could feel the heat radiating off my face and I knew I had blushed to the color of a ripe strawberry. I frantically surveyed the hall, searching for an empty seat, but got stuck sitting almost dead center in the front row because the class was so full. Throughout the lecture, I noticed the professor's eyes lingering on my legs below the table, and I spent almost the entire hour tightly clenching my knees together to prevent myself from accidentally flashing him my pussy. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the class ended and I sat immobilized while every other student filtered out of the auditorium. Once the hall was empty, the professor approached my desk and pressed both of his open palms on the table in front of me, leaning down to make eye contact:

"If you ever show up to my class dressed like this again, I will report you to the dean of students. This attire is completely inappropriate to wear in public, let alone an educational environment. If you are late to my class again, or attempt to distract your classmates with your whorish clothes, I will have you expelled before you can blink. Get out of my auditorium."

I was stunned by the hostility of his words, and my eyes filled with tears as I grabbed my backpack and rushed hurriedly from the room. I ran nearly all the way to my car, ignoring the feeling of the wind on my ass and praying the students around me were too distracted by my nipples to notice my tears. I made it to my car and sobbed into my steering wheel: how could I have done this? Why was I making more trouble for myself by acting like a whore for my neighbor's sexual pleasure? Before I could continue second-guessing, my phone dinged with a text from Mr. Robertson:

Well done my pet. Now all of your classmates and your professor know what a dirty whore you really are. Come to my house right now for the next part of your punishment--the rest of your classes can wait.

I had to admit that I was tempted to leave campus immediately regardless if Mr. Robertson's instructions. Even among all of the events of the last 24 hours, this was a new level of public humiliation. And yet, despite it all, I could feel wetness between my thighs. All of this was because my master had given me a command. I wasn't really in control of my actions because my body was not my own: I belonged to Mr. Robertson and I was his to control. My nipples hardened and poked through the thin fabric of my polo, and as I turned over the ignition, I resolved myself to go see my master and accept the rest of the punishment he had in store for me.

20 minutes later, I pulled into my driveway and left everything in my unlocked car: my body was all Mr. Robertson needed. As I approached his door, I once again saw the old man's enormous frame silhouetted against the entry windows. The green door swung open before I could knock, and Mr. Robertson gazed down at me with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Come in, slut."

This time, he closed the front door behind me and placed one gigantic hand on the base of my neck, directing me wordlessly towards the bedroom. I noticed immediately that a set of sturdy-looking black straps had been secured to each of the posts at the corners of Mr. Robertson's enormous four-poster bed. There was a large massage wand plugged into the wall and placed neatly next to a small leather riding crop at the foot of the mattress. Two wooden clothes pins were clipped to the handle of the riding crop--what could he possibly use those for? I shivered with anticipation at the bondage and toys laid out before me: he knew I was a virgin, how could start with such rough sex right out of the gate? Could my sensitive, inexperienced body hold up to the torture he had planned for me?

I barely had time to worry about the unfamiliar sex toys littering the bed before I felt Mr. Robertson press into me from behind. His thick cock throbbed against my lower back, and his hand traced a line up my abdomen before curling around my neck and tilting my face up towards him. He was so tall that from this angle, the top of my head pressed into the hollow between his pecs and I stared straight into his eyes as he laid out his plans for my punishment:

"I'm going to stroke my cock while you strip for me. Then, I'm going to tie you to that bed and torture your nipples and your pussy. I'll use the vibrator and force you to orgasm three times: once for every rule you broke. Finally, when you are throbbing and soaking wet and desperate to be fucked, I will send you home to suffer. I have no plans to take your virginity today: you don't deserve it after behaving like such a stupid, vapid slut."