Mistress Takes Him Out

Remarkably, I had some free time on a Friday night, and even more remarkably, so did you. How often does that happen? Even more appealing, Sal was out of town, and I had the apartment to myself. I settle into the couch, remote control in one hand and beer in the other, enjoying this brief moment of freedom.

A few moments later, there's a knock on my door. It's you, decked out in your pinstripe suit, back from court and the office. I open the door, give you a kiss, and get back to the couch -- the Simpsons is starting! -- not really hearing whatever it was that you said to me. You put your bag down, walk over, and say it again.

"I said, Give me your belt."

"What?" I look up at you, confused.

The look on your face changes in an instant. You stride over toward me, grab the beer out of my right hand and set it on the side table, and slap my left hand so hard the remote control falls out. You stand in front of me, hands on hips, blocking my view of the TV. Speechless, I look up at you.

"Give me your fucking belt."

I'm a little confused, but I do as I'm told, mostly out of confusion. I start to say something but you grab the belt out of my hand, turn on a heel, grab your bag, and go to my bedroom. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Try not to do anything stupid."

As you walk away, I pick up the remote with my left hand, still stinging from your slap. We've never done a Mistress Layla scene without deciding on it beforehand, but it seems like that's what you want to do, and hey, that's fine with me. I imagined you making me lick your clit or demanding that I fuck you harder, and my cock starts stirring in my pants. Some fucking (maybe I'd even get my dick sucked if I was good) and then we'd go out to dinner somewhere, probably one of the usual spots around here. Not a bad night by any stretch!

A few minutes later (did I heard the shower in the interim?) I hear the click of your heels on the hardwood floors as you approach the living room. I'd assumed, though, that you would be wearing the same clothes you were wearing earlier, which is most certainly not the case. Your pinstriped suit has given way to your brown dress, the black shoes you were wearing earlier have been replaced by (new?) matching shoes with a 3 ½ inch heel, and you seem to be wearing some new stockings. Worried about another shot to the hand, I quickly drop the remote control. "You're looking quite nice tonight, Miss," I said quickly, hoping to avoid (or maybe earn) more punishment.

"Are you saying I don't look nice other times, bitch?"

"No, Miss, I just meant that you're looking particularly nice now."

"I don't believe that's true. On your knees!"

As I kneel on the hardwood floor, you walk around behind me. I hear the zip of what I assume is your purse and a loud crack! as you snap something leather. Before I can process what was happening, I feel a stinging blow on my back. "That's for being too stupid to know how to compliment me," you whisper into my ear. "Yes, Mistress Layla, I'm sorry." I lower my head. Crack! "That's for wearing a shirt, which makes your whippings quite ineffective." "Yes, Miss." I hurry to take off my shirt. Crack! "And that's because the last two weren't enough. Now let's get you into something respectable. Well, not respectable, but at least tolerable."

Now I'm confused. If Mistress Layla is just going to put me through the paces as her sex slave, why get dressed up? I don't have time to think, though, as you yank me up by the hair and march me to my bedroom. The lights are off when we got in, and you push me forward onto the bed. I fall forward, face down.

"Get naked, bitch."

I dutifully oblige, turning over on the bed and making my way to the edge. I take off my pants and then my boxers, my cock springing free, and stand in front of you for your inspection.

"You look okay, but tonight will require a little something... 'extra,'" you say with a devilish grin. "Yes, Miss, whatever you say." You walk to the dresser and come back with a small bag. "Put these on."

I look inside the bag and find a pair of black thigh-highs and a tan thong. I was startled at first, but not that surprised. You had joked often about me wearing your panties and I'd said no. What better time to make me do it than as Mistress Layla?

I pull on the thong first. It felt slightly uncomfortable but surprisingly smooth next to my skin. It would have been too small even if I didn't have a raging hard-on; under the circumstances it was downright tiny. I sit down on the edge of the bed and pull on the thigh highs. I vaguely notice a small hole near the shin on one of them, but it doesn't really register.

"Good. Now stand up." I do as I'm told. Reaching into my closet, you pick out a blue button down shirt and a pair of gray slacks. "Now these." I'm confused again. What amusement would you get out of my wearing a thong and stockings if they were hidden? Still, obediently, I put them on. "Put on your shoes, get your keys and get your wallet," you order. "We're leaving."

You want me to go out like this?! I must have paused for a second too long, because before I knew it you had unzipped your purse, taken out my belt, and whipped me across the ass. "And don't dawdle." You walk out of the room ahead of me, making sure to rub my hard cock once through the thong and slacks.

The cab ride into Boston was uneventful. I didn't know why we were going to the Prudential Center, but I assumed you had some sort of plan. My mind raced, trying to guess at your scheme. All I knew was that I was tremendously turned out and intensely curious. None of our scenes had ever gone beyond the bedroom and occasional e-mails. I was nervous and excited trying to figure out where this all would lead.

Perhaps because we keep our scenes to ourselves, so much so that you refused to even talk to strangers about it over e-mail, I was shocked to hear your words to the cab driver when we arrived at the Pru: "Thanks for the ride. My little bitch will pay you." Stunned, I dumbly hand the driver a twenty. I ask for six dollars back as you stand by the curb, looking absolutely magnificent, tapping your foot and looking at your watch.

As I hurry out of the cab you walk briskly toward the front door. You don't even look back at me as you speak. "Eighteen seconds. That will be eighteen lashes later today."

"Now that's not fair!" I protest, hurrying to catch up. "It's not my fault he was slow at making change!"

You stop short and whirl around to look at me. "Triple that. Fifty-four. Eighteen more for talking back to me and another eighteen for being too cheap to give him a twenty. I don't have time to stand around waiting for you to save six dollars." I stand there speechless. I couldn't remember ever getting more than a handful of lashes at a time, never more than maybe a dozen in a night. Fifty-four??

"Seventy-two. Another eighteen for standing there like a dipshit and not opening the door for me." I hurry around you to open the door, silently imagining getting whipped seventy-two times. I hoped at a minimum that they wouldn't be consecutive.

I stand behind you on the escalator and admired your body from the back. The brown dress was remarkably sexy, clinging to your every curve. You stand a step above me, making it even easier to admire your fantastic ass. As I do so, you back toward me, pressing your ass into my body. Then you step down onto my level and subtly pressed your ass against my crotch, pinning me between your body and the escalator's rail. You reach back and slowly start rubbing my crotch, then cupping my balls, then grabbing my cock. The pleasure soon turns to pain, however, as you increase the force of your grip, getting tighter and tighter. I feel like my cock is about to explode, but luckily we reach the top of the escalator and you release me.

We walk quickly through the mall and after one pit stop ("Go buy some dark chocolates from that store over there and feed them to me while we walk") we're at Victoria's Secret. My semi-erect cock starts stirring again. Maybe you would have your bitch accompany you around the store while you decide what sexy lingerie to buy!

We wander through the store as you talk to yourself, occasionally handing me something to hold. After a few minutes, I've got a couple of thongs, a pair of boyshorts, and a "v-string," when we approach a saleswoman in a relatively empty corner of the store. She's relatively young, maybe thirty, and pretty attractive herself. Subconsciously, a thought enters my mind. "Maybe she'll be impressed with me because I'm with such a hot woman."

Well, if she was, that possibility soon evaporated. "Excuse me," you say to the woman, "can you help us decide which pair of panties my slut should wear?" Though I was ashamed, my cock perked at hearing you talk about me like that, and the woman looked up. "The thing is, he's wearing a tan thong right now, but I don't really like the color. What do you think?" You look over at me impatiently. "Come on, bitch, show her your thong." I stare back, shocked, unable to believe what you're asking me to do. "Here?!" I think silently. "In the store? What if someone walks in? What if someone I know walks in?!"

In a split-second, you raise your hand and slap me across the face. "Now." I quietly undo my belt and lower my pants slightly. Despite (or, more accurately, because of) the humiliation, my cock was rock-hard. I hold up the pants awkwardly with one hand. Reaching forward with both hands, you yank them down to my ankles. "There, see," you say, as I stand completely exposed, "I don't think the tan looks good with his skin tone."

The bemused saleswoman played along as I tried to pull the pants up and conceal myself. She takes the stack of panties from my arm, looking at each one and then back at me, debating to herself. Finally, she hands you a hot pink thong. "I think this will do nicely." I buckle up my belt and get ready to go, but you grab my arm. "We've got another problem." You tell the saleswoman. You lift up my right pant leg to reveal the thigh-high I'm wearing. "There's a run in his stocking."

The saleswoman leads you off to find a suitable pair of stockings as I stand in the corner silently, as much out of embarrassment as because you hadn't directed me to follow. Eventually, I make my way to the counter, pay for our things, and get ready to leave. I pay, and we walk out, me carrying the pink Victoria's Secret bag (of course). "Let's get some drinks," you declare.

We walk across the Prudential to the Marriott and make our way to the hotel's bar. A few people are there, but not too many (probably good for me, I think to myself). We make our way toward the bar, and as we do, I notice you looking at a guy across the way. He seems to be in his early thirties, probably a junior executive at some company or a young partner at an investment bank. He looks back and waves and you wink in reply.

"Mistress, may I ask if you know that gentleman?"

Your raise your hand and slaps me across the face. "No, you may not ask. But since I'm feeling generous I'll tell you anyway: no, I don't know him. Now buy me a drink and sit over there," you order, pointing to a table near the bar.

I purchase a glass of Pinot Grigio, set it on the bar for you, and make my way to the table just a few feet away. As I watch you sexily sipping your wine, the guy from across the bar makes his way toward you. Since I'm a few feet away, I can only hear snippets of your conversation.

"...your boyfriend? ... No, just my little bitch ... school? Working? ... lawyer... large New York firm...works as my sexretary ...does that mean? ... all-around slave, office and at home..."

The conversation goes on and I can't believe what's happening. I don't think I've ever seen you flirt this openly, let alone with a complete stranger. And in that brown dress! You're obviously not wearing a bra, and given how you're leaning forward — and how he keeps stealing glances at your chest — it's pretty clear that he's figured it out, too.

"...buy you another drink? No, my slut will get us drinks." You turn to me. "Bitch, buy us another round."

"Yes, Miss." I do as I'm told, trying to hide the obvious erection pitching a tent in my pants. Between the thong and stockings and being humiliated in front of yet another total stranger, I'm shocked — but incredibly aroused.

I return to my seat and again can only hear pieces of your conversation. He's hanging on your every word, but it's obvious that nothing you're saying is true! You're telling him the Mistress Layla story — hiring sexretaries, having them fuck you in front of clients, banging jurors to get verdicts to go your way, and more — and he thinks it's all true.

Your conversation goes on. "...corresponded by memorandum...tested him out last July...hired him on the spot...submissive little cunt but he does good work..."

By this point, several drinks in, the guy isn't even pretending to look at your face. He seems captivated (who wouldn't be?) by your nipples playing peek-a-boo behind the fabric of your dress. You're obviously enjoying the attention, and I'm so horny I can barely contain myself. As he leans closer to you, it's obvious he's moving in to make out. I'm shocked. Are you really going to do it?? He leans in even more and you slap his face away. In what seems like one motion, you reach into your purse, grab a piece of paper, slam it down on the bar, down your drink, get up, and walk over to me.

"Get up, bitch, we're leaving."

Confused by what transpired, I follow you out of the bar. "Mistress, may I ask what it said on the piece of paper you gave him?"

You turn around and look at me and smile. "Yes, you may." You reach into your purse and hand me another piece of paper. It's one of our old "sexretary application" e-mails, with a portion highlighted: "Many assume that they will one day get to spread my legs and sink into my pussy. They are of course wrong, but I don't disabuse them of the notion right away."

I look up at you, incredibly aroused by what's just transpired, a half-smile on my face. You look back sternly. "Wipe that grin off your face. You've still got seventy-two lashes coming, and the night isn't over yet."

***