Diary of a Lesbian Love Slave Pt. 07

1.

My Mistress tugged my collar in Miranda's direction and when she released me I obediently crawled over there. Miranda smiled and licked her lips; I got the feeling that this was not the first time she and my Mistress had shared a girl. This made me feel kind of cheap, but I decided that I would be so good I would make them forget the others.

Sitting up a little, Miranda lifted her skirt and pulled off her panties. Her pussy was hairier than I would have expected, but a lovely shade of pink and glistening with arousal. I looked over at my Mistress one last time to make sure this was really what she wanted; the look in Her eyes was unequivocal.

Leaning down, I spent some time on Miranda's inner thighs before getting down to the main event. Her nectar was delectable and I lapped it up for all I was worth, swirling my tongue all around her hole, then adding my fingers to the mix.

Making her come the first time was fairly easy, and as always I thoroughly enjoyed the moans and spasms I had brought about. But an insistent hand on my head told me I was to continue, and it cost me a fair amount of effort to coax a second -- much more intense -- orgasm out of Miranda, who gripped my head between her legs and dug her nails into my shoulder.

When she released me I took time to catch my breath and grinned weakly over at my Mistress, who had her hand down the open front of her jeans. It was at this time that I began to learn how much she likes to watch. She never tires of getting me into scenes with other women for her entertainment, and I never tire of doing it because a) I'm a bit of a slut and b) I'm doing it for Her.

Miranda stood me up and led me out the French doors into the garden, which was hidden from prying eyes by a tall wall running the whole way around. My Mistress trailed behind, now naked from the waist down, and took up a position under a big blue umbrella.

After laying me down on a lounge chair, Miranda stripped off her blouse and bra, then shimmied out of her skirt. The now-familiar sight of her crotch blotted out the sky as her head sank down between my legs and I felt her fingers opening me, then her tongue sliding inside me.

I have no idea how many times I came in Miranda's garden that day. I've been back plenty of times since; sometimes my Mistress lends me out to her for yardwork, and often as not we indulge in some kind of extracurricular activity. My Mistress doesn't mind, as long as I tell her -- in graphic detail -- everything that happens.

2.

Looking back, I realize that the reason my Mistress took me to Miranda's Garden to get me outfitted was that I was about to meet Margo. Margo probably the person in the world whose opinion matters the most to Her, and she wanted to make sure that I would stand up under scrutiny.

This was an important time in our relationship. I had already totally surrendered myself to Her, but she was still making up Her mind about how completely to accept that surrender. After all I was barely 18, and girls that age are, for the most part, unformed and temperamental creatures. My Mistress had had bad experiences along that line in the past and was not eager to repeat them.

But -- and it's hard to say this without sounding egotistical -- she had fallen for me. Hard. She tells me that no one else ever touched Her heart that way I did. And I believe her -- I've never known Her to lie, or to be wrong, about anything that mattered.

The day after we went to Miranda's, Margo arrived in town. I had been surprised the night before that my Mistress didn't want to dress me up in one of my new outfits and have Her way with me -- instead she sent me home. I know now that she was making sure the house would be white-glove clean for Margo's visit. I would have been happy to help, but I think that she was a bit embarrassed about the level of anxiety she had (and sometimes still has) about the whole thing.

She didn't tell me any of this at the time; all she said was, "A friend of mine is coming to visit, and I want you to meet her." Looking me up and down, she said, "Make sure you're nice and clean." The way she said it made me feel dirty, like I had been found wanting in this area. I think it was actually at least half a joke, but I showered as soon as I got home, and again in the morning before heading over to Her house. I was just in shorts and a T-shirt; she had told me not to worry about what I wore, that she would dress me.

When I showered I had been happy to see that my pubic hair was making good progress; I had a solid red triangle at that point, not as lush and verdant as it is now, but well-defined. As I checked myself out in the mirror, it struck me that I looked like an adult woman for, really, the first time; I had started shaving it as soon as it came in. As we drove home from Miranda's my Mistress had commented that it was coming along nicely, and I was still glowing a little from the compliment.

3.

Let's fast forward a little bit. The grandfather clock in my Mistress's foyer strikes 5, and just as the last chime has faded, the doorbell rings. I go to answer it. I am wearing my Mistress's favorites of the goodies we got from Miranda: up top, a black teddy fringed with lace, low-cut of course with an understructure that lifts and separates my breasts; below, matching panties and garters and hose, with most of my bare thighs exposed on either side.

The woman at the door is taller than my Mistress or me, with dark hair cut in a stylish bob. As she steps forward it becomes apparent that it is lightly streaked with gray. Her long coat seems like overkill for the season, but it is a fabulous garment.

"You must be Sam," she says before I can get a word out. I nod. "You're very lovely. Do you speak as well?" The way she says it is more playful than insulting, but I find myself blushing and nodding again.

Then it hits me what has been said, and remembering my Mistress's instructions, I curtsey and say, "At your service, ma'am." It's the first time I've ever curtsied, having been taught me how just that afternoon.

"Help me with this coat," Margo instructs me. I move around behind her and as I do I get a good look at her face. It is both beautiful and severe; I will soon learn that it can change in an instant from stern and foreboding to a beatific glow. Her eyes are dark and penetrating, and she looks me over thoroughly and unapologetically. I find myself hoping that she likes what she sees.

I get the coat off her and hang it on the rack. "Will you please follow me, ma'am?" I say, turning toward the living room. Margo follows and when we get there my Mistress is sitting back on the big overstuffed chair, sipping a martini.

She puts her drink down and stands up, and just for a moment the two women's body language suggests that they are about to attack each other. Then they move into an enthusiastic embrace, and I see my Mistress's face break into an ecstatic smile that makes me a little jealous.

"How was your flight?" asks my Mistress.

("Why don't you pick her up at the airport?" I asked once. The answer: Margo won't hear of it; she likes limo rides.)

"Dreadful," says Margo, shaking her head. "Simply dreadful. The glory days of aviation are long gone, I fear."

My Mistress gives me a look and I remember that I was supposed to immediately fetch the martini that was waiting on chill for Margo's arrival. I scramble to get it and when I return, Margo accepts it with an appreciative sigh. "Prost!" she says. (At the time I had no idea what that meant.) She and my Mistress click glasses and drink deeply.

They sit down to talk for awhile. My Mistress has a small fire going despite the warmth of the summer evening. I refill their drinks when necessary and bring Margo water when she asks for it. After a little while I carry out the tray of cheese and crackers.

Margo asks me to fix a cracker for her, then my Mistress does the same. I end up kneeling between them, handing them food as they drink and talk. I find their conversation fascinating, though most of it is lost on me; they have a wealth of experiences and shared memories that I can't begin to comprehend. But I feel very privileged to be in the company of these strong, smart, accomplished women.

* * *

Now, a year and a half later, that has changed somewhat. My Mistress has taught me a lot, taken me on trips, and encouraged me to educate myself. I still don't think of myself as worldly, but I'm not the naive small-town girl I was then.

Now I know, for instance, that Miranda is Vietnamese. When I first met her I knew very little about the different Asian countries.

I've learned a lot about Margo, too, though she is a habitually mysterious person. She doesn't like to talk about herself but will answer my questions and is a gifted storyteller once she gets going.

Margo is from Alsace--Lorraine and talks with an accent that to my ear sounds French one minute, German the next. It's a very mild accent, anyway; she's lived in the U.S. since she was a teenager. Her given name was Margaux, but when she came here she found that it was constantly misspelled and mispronounced, so she changed it to the American version.

Margo speaks at least a dozen languages and has travelled to seemingly every country in the world. She doesn't often speak about her amorous exploits, but I get the sense there have been many. My impression is that she's slept with every kind of woman there is.

When my Mistress first started in her career, Margo was the only woman in senior management at the company, and became my Mistress's mentor. It has beem strange for me to learn that my Mistress, whom I think of as perfect and original in every way, had to some extent modeled herself after the older woman.

They often travelled together for business, and had many adventures together, including sexual ones. But they never became a couple; they are both dominant personalities. Eventually my Mistress moved on to a better job at another company and Margo has since retired.

One thing I don't know is how old she is; my best guess would be early fifties. She is in magnificent physical shape and works out with a personal trainer every day. I've come to know her body quite intimately -- she was the first older woman I ever had sex with -- and while I suppose her body is not quite what it once was, her slim build is conducive to aging gracefully. Her breasts are small but still firm, and she has lean, powerful thighs that I've found my head clamped between on many an occasion.

Certainly Margo is wealthy, though I'm not sure how much. She is not by nature an extravagant person, but she never lets money get in the way of having what she wants.

The relationship between Margo and my Mistress is one of mutual respect and affection, if occasionally a bit of competition, and my Mistress happily shares with Margo everything she has -- including me, of course. We don't see her as often as we'd like, but when we do it's always a pleasure.

* * *

That first night I studied Margo carefully before and during dinner. She has big, sensuous lips, and I wondered what it would be like to kiss them. It didn't take me long to find out.