An Evening with the Webcam Ch. 03

I picked up my clothes and dressed quickly, hooking my bra over the words on my breasts, buttoning my blouse over the things written on my stomach, sliding my slacks up my legs, hiding them from sight. I mopped up the wetness from my chair with a handful of tissues, packed the dildo and marker back in the box, and combed my fingers through my hair, trying to make myself at least halfway presentable. With a deep breath, I unlocked my office door and opened it.

A handful of people in the large cubicle farm looked up. I felt the weight of every pair of eyes, some part of my mind screaming that they knew what I'd done in my office, that the evidence was visible all over me. My hand touched my cheek, and I turned away from the door, redfaced.

Concentration proved difficult. For the next several hours, I buried myself in work, trying not to think of the errand I would do on the way home. I found myself constantly checking and re-checking my blouse, convinced that the writing on my body must be showing, for everyone to read. Whenever someone came into my office, I would jump, and try to hide myself as much as possible, staying behind my desk, sheltered from prying eyes by my computer's monitor.

Nobody seemed to notice my distraction. I felt vulnerable and exposed, as though sitting at my desk naked. As people spoke to me, my eyes would flit nervously to the wooden box on my desk, as if something in me expected it to turn transparent, revealing its contents, exposing my wanton sluttiness.

At ten minutes until for, my computer chimed, my scheduling program popping up a reminder of today's four o'clock department meeting-something I'd forgotten about entirely. Panic raced through me, squeezed my heart, brought a flush to my face. The rational part of me wanted to flee, hide, anything to avoid the attention of a dozen pair of eyes. I thought briefly about leaving the office early, inventing an excuse to beg off the meeting, then dismissed the thought as irresponsible and prepared for the meeting, printing the reports and tables I would need, mechanically, my heart pounding.

When I was ready, I gathered my materials and steeled myself, then walked down the short hallway to the conference room. The others were already there; I froze at the doorstep as everyone looked up at me, convinced they could see right through me, could see the words written all over my body. I flushed and ducked my head, scurrying to my seat at the large oval table, avoiding everyone's gaze.

The meeting was a long, slow hour of torment, Chinese water torture by words. As the time for my own presentation closed in, my shame and humiliation grew; the rational part of my mind retreated in panic, afraid speak, to be the center of all these looks...

...and then the unfolding of time could not be denied, and it was my turn, and I opened my mouth to speak. The circle of faces around the table turned their attention to me, and in that instant, something happened within me. A tiny shift, and just like that, everything was different.

A strange and fierce joy swept over me. I had a secret, one expressed in my throbbing pussy and literally written all over my body, a secret that would set hearts racing and make cocks rise if these men knew. I gave my report, professional and detached, voice calm and flat as I recited numbers and talked about action items. Inside, I thought of vulgar and degrading things, relished the fact that I, the desperately horny come slut, could sit in this conference room, words of filth and degradation scrawled in marker all over my body, and none of them was the wiser.

I smiled a small, secret smile as I finished my report, exhilarated, the feelings of humiliation transformed into something else-a secret delight at the contrast between the cool, professional exterior and the white-hot carnal lust inside. I wondered how many of these men, men I'd worked alongside for years, had entertained secret sexual fantasies about me, and wondered how they would react if they knew everything. I smiled wider, imagining their reactions if they'd seen last night's performance, or watched what I'd done this morning.

The meeting broke up; I excused myself and left. I gathered up my laptop and the box Robert had sent, and walked out to my car, whistling cheerfully. As I drove to the store, I could feel a tingle between my legs, and the dampness growing there. I found myself imaging the things Robert would almost certainly tell me to do with the cucumber.

At the store, it took very little time for me to find the condoms, butter, and KY. The cucumber took a bit longer. I lingered in the produce aisle, picking up the cucumbers, running my hands back and forth over them, searching for the right one. Smooth, straight, rounded end, just the right size to be an interesting challenge to take... I selected one and stroked it, my fingers not quite long enough to reach around it. Yes, I thought, this would do nicely.

The person behind the cash register was a matronly lady, older than I was, with silver hair and glasses. She examined the contents of my basket and pursed her lips. I met her gaze levelly, raising one eyebrow, daring her to speak, and she looked away and rang up my purchases in silence. I smiled, thanked her pleasantly, and took my bag back to the car.

I stopped on the way home for Chinese takeout. At home, I walked through the door, smiling at the camera in the living room, and set out the cardboard containers on the table. I ate quickly under the gaze of the camera in the kitchen, then returned to the living room to prepare for the evening.

First, the cuffs. I sat on the couch, opened the wooden box, and took them out. They were dark black, with large metal buckles and a metal ring attached with rivets, and smelled of new leather. I slipped off my shoes and socks, and buckled the ankle cuffs around my ankles, cinching them tight. The wrist cuffs I strapped around my wrists, using my teeth to pull them tight. The leather felt delightfully erotic on my skin. I smiled and ran my hands over my body.

Next, the living room. I spread a large, soft, fluffy towel on the couch, on the idea that whatever Robert had planned for the evening, it was apt to be messy; then brought the toy box into the living room, and set it on the end of the couch. I arranged the cucumber, condoms, and KY on the coffee table, and set up my laptop next to them, making sure the camera on the laptop had a good view. I felt myself growing excited, felt my nipples harden as I set up for the evening's show; the knowledge that I would be performing for a second watcher, a watcher who was probably observing me right now, fantasizing about me, knowing that I would soon be doing dirty things to myself, made the preparations deliciously erotic.

I checked the time, impatient; still several minutes to go. I found my thoughts returning to the morning, to the things I had done to myself before work, and could not help grinning. On a sudden impulse, I returned to the bedroom and dragged out the large free-standing mirror next to the dresser, then set it up facing the couch where I would be able to watch myself.

At 6:29, I took the box of butter from the refrigerator and set it on the coffee table. At 6:30, I turned to the laptop and logged in to the chat server.

The window appeared instantly:

You are right on time. Very good. Did you stop at the store and get the things I asked?

I nodded. "Yes."

Are you my slut?

A tremor ran down my body; my face flushed, and my nipples came alive. "Yes. Oh God, yes."

Good. I hope you are ready. You are going to have a long evening. Get your nipples hard.

I whimpered slightly, and my hands rose to my breasts. I caressed and fondled then through my blouse, my eyes half-closed, as little shocks of pleasure ran through me; my fingers curled around my nipples, stroking and coaxing them through the fabric. Soon they stood out rock-hard, straining against my clothing, sensitive. I leaned forward, presenting them to the camera that watched silently from my laptop.

Very good. You were disobedient last night. You had several unauthorized orgasms. I am afraid that is a serious matter. I see you brought out the box of toys. Open it. Take out two clothespins. Clamp your nipples through your shirt.

I couldn't suppress the small whimper. I turned to the toy box, hands shaking as I searched within and drew out the clothespins. My nipples ached already from the rough treatment I'd given them earlier; my hands shook as I brought the clothespin up to my left nipple and opened its jaws. I froze for a long moment, knowing my clothing would offer little protection from the cruel bite; then, shuddering, I closed my eyes and willed myself to release the clothespin, very slowly.

It was worse than I had expected.

Fire raced through my nipple as the clothespin clamped down. I heard myself cry out at the unexpected pain, the sound jarringly loud. I clenched my eyes shut, panting, struggling to keep control; then, before I could lose my nerve, I brought the second clothespin up to my other nipple and clamped it quickly in place.

I cried out again, the scream muffled through clenched teeth, my hands curling into tight balls. Finally, the fire faded to a dull ache, and I forced my eyes open.

You are so beautiful when you're in pain. We need to get you undressed, though.

He does not know about the things you've written on your body. I bet it will turn him on to see what filthy things you have written all over yourself, don't you think?

My face flushed again with embarrassment. I fought with the sudden shame, the urge to turn away from the camera, and willed my fingers to find the top button of my blouse...

No. Stop. Not like that. Look in the box of toys. Take out the scissors. Cut off your blouse and your bra. Do not remove the clothespins.

My protest died on my lips, even as I reached into the toy box and found the scissors. The blouse was one of my favorites...

Snip! and the first button went flying

...and I hated to ruin it, yet...

Snip! a second button dropped to the floor

...something about this felt so viscerally wanton, slutty...

Snip! the third button falling away, the blouse parting, revealing my bra

...and I could feel, through the pain in my nipples and the embarrassment, my pussy twitching...

Snip! another button lost

...and I found myself staring at my image in the mirror, my eyes following every move of the scissors...

Snip! the last button gone, my blouse hanging open

...and I felt almost hypnotized. I watched myself cut the blouse to ribbons, scissoring away large chunks of the silky fabric, working from the bottom up, revealing the words I SWALLOW written across my stomach in thick black marker, until finally the blouse hung from my body in tatters.

Entranced, I watched myself run the cool, hard metal blade of the scissors over the soft skin of my stomach. I drew the point of the blade slowly up my body, raising shivers, shuddering at the sensation, and hooked the tip of the blades beneath the clasp of my bra, between my breasts.

Snip!

The bra parted, revealing my. I slipped one blade beneath the cup of my bra, dragging the tip over my breast lightly, slowly; then, three quick snips and scraps of bra and blouse joined the growing pile of fabric on the couch. The hard steel blade of the scissors caressed my breast as it did its work; I cut a large, ragged hole in the front of my blouse, then slipped the blade beneath the strap of the bra, and...

Snip!

...it fell, bringing the upper curve of my breast, bringing the word "COCK" in its crude block letters into view. A few more slices, and the bottom part of the bra was gone, exposing the rest of my breast and the word "SUCKER."

I leaned back against the cushions of the sofa, closed my eyes, and let the points of the scissors play over my breast, a sharp counterpoint to the ongoing dull ache of the clothespins. I ran the blade ever so lightly over my neck, bringing shivers and raising goosebumps, then dragged the hard steel lightly over my cheek. My lips parted, and I licked the blade with the tip of my tongue, then brought it slowly down the other side of my neck and slipped it beneath the collar of the tattered blouse.

Snip! Snip! Snip!

A piece of the blouse, collar and shoulder, fell away, revealing the other bra strap.

Snip!

The strap gave way to hang loosely from my shoulder. I slipped the scissors beneath what was left of the bra and cut steadily, making a tight circle around my nipple; the scraps of cloth fell to the couch, revealing the words COME SLUT in black marker, leaving only tiny fragments, clamped to my nipple by the clothespin, behind. I shrugged off the last remnants of the blouse, naked now from the waist up, the clothespins on my nipples holding small scraps that were all that was left of the clothes.

You are such a sexy slut. Now do your pants.

I reached down to my belt and unbuckled it, then pulled it off and dropped it beside the couch. Eyes closed, I dragged the tip of the scissors in a lazy spiral around my breast, and pressed slightly harder, feeling the point dig slightly into my silky skin. Another shudder, and I sighed. I spread my legs wide, and watched myself in the mirror as I dragged the tip of the scissors down, between my breasts, over my stomach, then further down still, catching the hem of my slacks between the blades, feeling the hard metal on the soft, sensitive skin of my mound. A few quick cuts, and I sliced the crotch out of my slacks, to show the white cotton of my panties, already dark and moist with my arousal.

A quick minutes' work with the scissors, and the slacks fell off me in ribbons, leaving only my panties, socks, and shoes. I drew my feet up onto the couch, spreading my legs more widely still, exposing my inner thighs and the words written on them to the camera. I imagined my audience reacting, imagined Robert and Jason watching, imagined them growing stiff as they read the words scrawled all over my body, coveting me, wanting to make those words true...

Two snips, and the panties were gone. I slipped off the socks and shoes, then slid my hand over my smooth, hairless mound and spread myself open, exposing myself for the camera, and caught my breath as I saw in the mirror the white wetness of my arousal dripping from inside me. I arched my back, feeling wanton and slutty, a being of pure sexual heat; I slid one finger deep inside myself, seeking the wetness, then withdrew it and raised it to my lips. I caressed my lips lightly with the wet fingertip, parting them and leaving a trail of dampness behind.

Flush with arousal, I picked up the scissors again, and dragged the sharp tip of the blades slowly down my breast, then pressed it against the clothespin clamping my nipple. I shuddered and hissed at the sensation, the pain in my already aching nipple; the sensation, electric, reverberated down my body to the dripping wetness between my legs. Then, achingly slowly, I traced the sharp point along the underside of my breast, across the smooth skin of my stomach and along the outlines of the words written there, and over the velvety, sensitive skin of my bald, shaven mound.

I reached between my legs with one hand and parted the lips of my vulva, then slipped the flat back of the blades between them. I whimpered at the feel of the cold, unyielding metal, eyes closed, and pressed the dull metal hard against my aching, screaming, sensitive clit.

The sensation was an explosion deep within me, pleasure and pain entwined, inseparable. I almost came immediately, back arching and legs shaking, and I dug my fingernails hard into my thighs, struggling against the climax. I felt the wetness pour out of me, onto the blade of the scissors; heard desperate mewling and whimpering sounds escaping my throat.

I pressed the blade harder against me, until pain won out over pleasure and I was able to force back the orgasm, cage it, keep it at bay. I opened my eyes, panting, and brought the scissors away. The blades were dripping with my juices. I raised it to my lips and ran my tongue lovingly, sensuously over the sharp steel, filling myself with the familiar taste of my arousal.

You are the sexiest slut imaginable. When I get home the day after tomorrow, I am going to do things to you you won't even believe. Put down the scissors. Take out a stick of butter. Unwrap it.

I did as I was bidden, setting the scissors down on the coffee table and picking up the box of butter. I withdrew a stick and pulled the wax paper wrapping off. "Now what?"

I think you know.

I looked blankly at the laptop, holding the slightly greasy stick of butter between my fingers. "Hmm?"

You figure it out.

"But I don't-"

Do what you think is most appropriate with it.

I flushed, and felt my face and ears burn scarlet. I knew, or suspected I knew, precisely what he intended for me to do, and yet...

And yet he hadn't actually told me to do it, and that made the shame come rushing over me all at once. He hadn't actually old me to do it; anything I did would be my own idea, and he would know it...

Do it. Show us what you think the best use for that butter is. Now.

I flushed a deeper crimson, suddenly reminded that the eyes watching me belonged to more than just Robert.

Right now.

I looked fixedly at the reflection in the mirror, shutting out the camera watching me from the top edge of the laptop. A part of me felt detached; that was the person doing this, the filthy slut who would pleasure herself with anything, not me... I watched as she slid the stick of butter over her body, between her breasts, watched as she opened herself up, watched as she pressed it between her legs...

The butter was cool, slightly slippery, and shaped awkwardly for penetration. I shivered at the coldness, the hard but yielding stick spreading me open, slipping into me surprisingly easily, the corners already beginning to round as I impaled myself on it.

And it felt good, despite the shape and the cold. I pushed, my fingers digging into the sides as I pressed it in deeply. I heard a moan; my voice, not the reflection, my pleasure as I violated my most intimate place with a stick of butter. Another moan as I began working it, using it like a soft and slick dildo, in long slow strokes. I could feel it warming, softening, my body pressing it into a more pleasing shape; after the rough, relentless poundings I'd given myself with the dildos, it felt soft and gentle, erotic, slippery in my clenching grasp.

Another moan. The woman in the reflection was nearing orgasm...and I felt it within me, building, growing as I thrust the butter faster. I looked over at the computer, expecting to see Robert instructing me to stop.

That's it. Good girl. Hot buttery cunt. Fuck yourself. Get yourself off. Come on that stick of butter. Do it!

The warm butter was softening inside me, velvety slickness moving in and out of me. I thrust faster, rocking my hips unconsciously to drive it deeper, my fingers playing frantically over my clit; the mirror reflected back to me the perfect image of a sex-starved slut, masturbating obscenely for a camera, raw sexual need literally written all over her body.

I spread my legs wider, wanting the whore in the mirror to do the same, to give me a better view of the soft yellow bar she was driving so obscenely into her shaved snatch. The mirror image felt disconnected, unreal, as though we were two separate players in a very pornographic show.

I watched her, my partner in the mirror, savoring her obvious arousal, how clearly she was enjoying masturbating with that stick of butter, how her pleasure was written in the arch of her back, the sheen of sweat on her skin, on her face, in her eyes, unmistakable. I loved how undeniable her enjoyment was, how plain it was to anybody who saw her; my orgasm overtook me quickly, and soon she and I were screaming, heads thrown back in mutual ecstasy.