tagBDSMSlave to Her Mistress

Slave to Her Mistress

byCouture©

I experimented with writing in 3rd person. I didn't like it very much, but felt it was an interesting premise.

(c) 2002 Couture


***********

You're only sitting here because your computer at home is broken. Yes, the old 400 Mhz has surfed it's last erotic story site and taken with it every last story you archived to a hidden folder.

"Thank God for libraries," you think, glancing around quickly to make sure no one is looking, before pulling up the latest Couture story. No, they aren't the best written stories out there, but they never fail to make you wet.

Yes, there's a new one! You bring up MSN, and switch your active window back to the story; just in case you need to clear the screen in a hurry.

As you read the story, your thighs squeeze together, wringing moisture from the soaking sponge that is your cunt. Your hand strays to your breasts, not for pleasure, but just to make sure your nipples aren't advertising your secret hidden thoughts like two beacons flashing from your chest.

You continue to read. Your thighs begin their now familiar rhythmic motion: Squeeze, open, close-squeeze, open, close. Your thoughts are interrupted by the aggravating squeaking of a chair. Blushing, you realize it's your chair.

The story is about two young girls dominated by two older women in a public restroom. The story makes you particularly hot, because in just a few minutes, you will be the one doing something naughty in the library restroom.

You squeeze your thighs together again, priming the pump as it were. You feel your pussy open as your thick labia pull apart. It's hungry, you realize; smacking its lips in anticipation of being fed. At home it would get to feast on a trusty vibrator as you indulged your fantasies, but today it would have to settle for your fingers.

Your lips pull apart again. You swear you could hear it smack this time.

'Stop that,' you think, as you look down at your crotch. 'Isn't it enough that you make me read these horrible stories? Why can't you like normal stories . . .like romances? No, instead you make me come down here to the library and risk everything for you. Even making me get my husband to take us here.'

You realize your pussy cares not one wit for your patronizing speech. She's as hot as she's going to get and if you are going to keep from embarrassing yourself, you better go to the restroom and satisfy her hunger.

After triple checking to make sure Internet Explorer is closed and there is no incriminating evidence left on the computer, you get up and head to the restroom. Once there, you check to make sure you are alone and secure yourself in the last stall. You decide to forgo the tissue on the lid and sit down unprotected after every other woman that has been there before.

You ruck your skirt up, pull down your panties, spread your legs lewdly and stick a finger in your needy cunt, in one smooth motion.

"There, are you happy?" you ask her.

She isn't. Your hand deposits the panties in your purse, but returns with the pantyliner.

"No," you beg. "Not that."

Your hand moves of its own volition, overruled by your cunt. The liner soon finds its way to your nose. You try to hold your breath, but eventually you are forced to inhale the musky scent her arousal.

Your fingers speed, fucking her, faster and faster. It's loud, and you wish you could quiet them - quite her.

'This isn't me,' you think. 'I'm a housewife, not the sort of slut that does this. That makes these sorts of squishing and smacking noises.'

Your fingers move to your clit and circle the tiny pearl with deft strokes born of years of practice.

'Please hurry,' you beg her, but she's still not satisfied. She needs more. You hand begins to force the pantyliner in your mouth.

'No, please,' you beg silently, turning your head to the side. 'Don't make me do that. Not here. Not in public.'

The orgasm you so desperately crave dances out of your grasp, leaving you there, gasping, sweating, and hanging by a thread.

'Oh, that's so mean, you horrible cunt.'

Somehow your lips part just far enough for a finger to push part of the liner into your mouth. You give up and suck the remnants of the juices from it.

'See, I've done it. You made me taste you. You made me suck you. Please-please-please, just let me cum.'

You spy your discarded panties lying balled up in your purse. You quickly look away, hoping she missed them. She didn't. That wicked little cunt never misses anything.

Leaving the pussy pad in your mouth, you hand moves down and picks up the panties.

'No, please' you beg. 'Someone could come in at any moment. My husband's coming back to pick me up and I can't afford to smell like some back alley slut. Oh, please, haven't you humiliated me enough.'

You hand pulls the panties over your head, and then proceeds to smear the soiled wet crotch over your face, rubbing her scent all over you, marking you, before settling the crotch over your nose.

'Oh, you've done it now. You've broken me. Turned me into your slut again. You've made a whore out of me. Are you happy?'

You inhale the crotch of the panties, as you suck on her cunt soaked liner. Hands quickly unbutton your blouse, pulling your breasts out of their cups. Fingers tweak hardened nipples, not lovingly, but hard. Showing you she owns you. Your legs pull up and spread, causing the plumbing on the commode to jam uncomfortably into your back, but that cunt doesn't care about your back. She only wants to make you suffer.

She has you like she wants you now. Stripped, spread, wearing her marks and getting fucked like the pussy-slut you are.

You can feel your climax building quickly. It won't be long now.

You pull the leg hole of the panties over your eye and then reach down to the bottom of your large pocket book.

'Please,' you beg. 'Don't make me see it. We both know you own me, isn't that enough?'

You close your eyes tight. You won't look this time. You don't need it. Just once, you will just cum and everything will be okay. The orgasm doesn't come and neither do you.

'Just one little look. A quick peek,' you resign yourself. You open your eyes and look at the picture of a thirty-year-old housewife and mother of two, naked, but for a pair of panties, lying on the kitchen floor, her hand bunched up in her crotch. It's obvious she's holding the camera with her free hand. Though the view is distorted from the angle, the look in the woman's eyes is haunted and almost exhausted, yet at the same time relieved. There is a large wet stain on the crotch of the panties and a puddle around her middle.

You know what the puddle is from, because the woman is you.

Seeing yourself like that in the picture; put there and displayed in such a fashion of lewd depravity, a slave to your Mistress. It is enough to take you over the top. Your orgasm bursts forth from deep inside your loins like molten fire. Hips buck, heels scratch the surface of the steel wall surrounding you, and fingers stoke the fire that burns inside your womb. Your eyes never leave the Polaroid.

After you come down from your orgasm, you take a deep breath and give a shivering sigh of relief.

It is almost over, but not quite. You are careful to remain exactly as you are. It is difficult, because, now the chrome plumbing fixture digging into your back actually hurts and there is no pleasure to deaden the pain. You reach into your purse and extract the camera. Steeling yourself, you close your eyes and imagine the depravity, the pleasure, and how deeply you have been enslaved. You open your eyes and push the button on the camera.

There is a flash and then the familiar ka-zzzzzttttt, as it spits out a square of white paper. As always, you refuse to look at it, and put it in your purse. Looking will come later.

Now comes the hard part. The part when reality seeps back in. Ashamed, you put yourself back in order. Panties off head and into purse, panty-liner discarded into the porcelain bowl located conveniently between your legs, sex and fingers dried with tissue.

'God, look what you've done to me,' you think as you dry your fingers and still very aroused sex with tissues.

You push your tender breasts back into the cups of your bra, button your blouse, and then stand up to smooth down your wrinkled skirt. You fold up the camera and hide it and the picture in the bottom of your purse.

With heels clacking on the hard tile floor, you make your way to the sink. Once there, you cup your hands under the running water and plunge your face in. You wash your face and hands, trying to get her scent off of you. Even after, you can still smell her - the scent of her - her mark.

Jesus, you can feel it in your bones. She wants you to do it again, but this time right here in front of the mirror. Right here for anyone to see if they should come in.

Looking down at your still tingling crotch, you think, 'Christ, haven't you done enough to me? Charles will be here at any moment and anyone- anyone could come in and catch me. I can't - I won't - I refuse to do it.'

Hurrying to get out before it is too late; you open your purse and powder your face, but the tingling in your sex won't go away.

'Please,' you beg. 'I'll get a new computer next week. Just wait until then and we can do anything you want. It's too risky here.'

You remove the top from your lipstick and stare at the tip. "I can't," you whisper. "You're going to get me in trouble."

Grabbing the hem of your skirt, you quickly raise it, exposing your sex. Lower lips - her lips - are painted red with lipstick, the color of arousal, the color of sex. You lower your skirt, smooth it down and paint the upper lips at your leisure.

After placing the tube of lipstick in your purse, you triple-check everything, making sure that any incriminating evidence is safely down at the bottom of your purse and it is secured before leaving the restroom.

Outside among the books, everything is normal. A young girl pushes a cart of books and stops to place one on the shelf. She glances at you, and you quickly do a mental check, praying that you didn't leave any outward signs of what you were doing just minutes earlier.

The fresh air dries the wetness from your pussy as you walk to the bookshelf and pick up a romance that you will never read. You see a vagrant nodding off at the table in the aisle and you walk the long way around so you can avoid him, making your way to the front counter. Once there, the librarian scans the book, your library card and tells you to have them back in two weeks.

You walk outside and wait for your husband by the front door like a good housewife, lick your lips and taste the flavor of your mistress.

The End

***********

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