Velvet: A Story of Obedience Ch. 02

2. Early Training

It wasn't until the fourth night that they contacted me again. During the intervening period I'd dutifully sat, as ordered, in front of my computer between mid-night and one am, clad only in a satin corselet stockings and high heels, with my video link camera trained on my exposed body and with my computer open to any casual interrogation under my net sobriquet of 'Velvet'. Again by their instruction I wasn't allowed to converse with such casual visitor and, again in compliance, I had to masturbate myself to climax upon opening, twice more during the hour and again before closure.

It was a new experience for me. As my own boss, and owner of a discrete courier service, I'm regarded as a bit of a martinet by my staff and, definitely, I'm the one in control. And the same heretofore had been the case with my private life – both social and sex. Somehow, I'd succumbed to Ebb and Flo's suggestion of enrolling myself as their submissive slave after entering an internet chat room those few nights previously – and I was already aware that something inside me responded positively to the thought of their domination; hence my passive acceptance of their command to exhibit myself in this way.

[The explanation of how Velvet met and agreed to become Ebb and Flo's submissive can be found in 'Velvet: a Story of Obedience – 1. Beginnings' fp]

"Velvet," the message read, "go and get your panties, those that match your costume of course, and return! Ebb and Flo."

I did as I was bid and returned to my computer desk, and the range of the camera, carrying my panties.

"Put them on and masturbate to climax, coming in your panties;" was the pre-emptory command.

Meekly, I bent to step into my pale yellow gauzy, lacy panties, pull them up around my hitherto naked thighs and sat with my legs parted in full view of the camera. Gently at first, I started to tease the already engorged [and easily discernable through the fragile transparency] lips of my sex – all clearly visible on the screen in front of me and that of anyone Ebb and Flo had allowed to gain and maintain access. Gradually my fingers began to find a quicker rhythm and a deeper penetration as I sought to assuage the throbbing, welling sensation inside me and to grant release to the stiffening thrusting stalk of my clitty. In no time at all, it seemed to me, with my nipples by now standing out like bullet tips and my aureole bubbling and flushing with arousal, my climax arrived and I came in great waves that flooded my panties with my own honey-musk and saturated my thighs, my stocking tops, my suspender straps and the seat of my chair. Giving me little time to recover my equanimity the next command arrived.

"Take your panties off and use them to clean yourself."

Again without demure, I did so. Still in full view of myself and all and any watchers. My panties, already drenched with my outpourings degenerated into a soggy, sorry rag.

"Lift your panties to face, breath in the aroma, Wipe your face in them – slowly and completely, and then suck as much of the moisture out of them as you can."

Docilely, I carried out my instructions. It wasn't the first time I'd tasted my own climactic flood. In the past I'd milked my own sex with my fingers, after masturbation, and I had at least one female lover with whom I'd shared love juices, by holding one-an-other's in our mouths to share with our kisses. And I'd lapped and swallowed both female and male outpouring on many occasions. But it was the first time I'd ever sucked my own panties. The somewhat strange combination of my flood, with the dressing of my previously unworn panties, was by no means unpleasant – a sweet rather pungent mixture. With my panties still in my mouth I received the next inquiry.

"Is your camera capable of remote action?"

"Yes."

"Filming as you go, put you panties back on, dress in a formal blouse and costume, over a full length slip, and go into your bathroom. Run a bath and step into it, fully clothed. Gradually remove all your clothes and bathe yourself intimately and properly. Before leaving the bath, shave your pudenda and labia clean. Return to the computer and display your newly shaven pussy."

After stooping to resume my panties, I carried my camera into my bedroom and set it up to catch my image as I dressed as instructed; carried it into the bathroom to film my bath filling; my fully clothed immersion; my gradual unclothing; my painstaking and comprehensive toilette; and my thorough depilation of my pubic bush. On my return to my computer, the resultant baby soft and conspicuous gash of my lower lips surprised me – I'd never felt so naked before, even exposed to the camera as I'd masturbated on demand, the presence of my bush had somehow provided an element of camouflage that was no longer there. The image of my naked quim, splashed across my screen, brought a moment of doubt to my mind. 'Was I really being wise, in pursuing my liaison? I could cut it at any time'. It was only a moment, I wasn't given enough time to dwell on it before my next instructions arrived ... and these instructions made me quail, but set up a imp in me that insisted that I follow them to the best of my ability, in anticipation of the arousal and thrill they promised to incite in me.

The next morning, a Saturday, I awoke early and dressed and prepared in strict accordance with my directions. As I made my way through the underground network to Oxford Street I was acutely aware of my nakedness under my light summer weight wrap around skirt. Like most women, I'd occasionally gone out without panties before but only when attending parties or social events that called for tight formal dresses, the lines of which would be disturbed by the outline of any underwear. This was different; over-ground there was an early summer breeze that was enough to catch the hem of my skirt, and raise it, and the through draft on the underground platforms seemed particularly virulent that morning. And I was under strict instructions not to attempt to hold my skirt down. It was enough, too, to flatten my light summer blouse, held tight to my body by the waist band of my skirt, against my braless breasts, emphasising my already well stimulated nipples.

Upon arrival in the shopping street, my first task was to choose a shoe shop that had young men serving. Making my selection, pausing almost to offer up a short prayer for courage, I entered and, catching the eye of the youngest male assistant there, sat down to choose a pair of shoes – asking him to fetch several models in my size. Whilst he went off to retrieve the shoes I surreptitiously re-arranged the folds of my skirt to allow the two sides to slide back across my thighs. As he knelt before me I raised my foot to enable him to slide a shoe onto my foot, allowing my skirt to part even further and giving him ample opportunity to glance up and see my doubly naked, knickerless and shaven, quim. From the way his body started, the flush that quickly suffused his face and neck, and the bulge that almost immediately appeared in the front of his trousers, it was obvious that he had taken the opportunity offered. My level, expressionless gaze cut off any involuntary noise and I kept him there, at my feet, trying on various shoes, with my nakedness before his eyes, for the best part of half-an-hour as I discussed fit colour and fashion with him, and made him try different shoes more than once. Eventually, I rewarded him by buying the two most expensive models, and gave him a discrete smile as I handed him an extra tip 'for service', and left to fulfil my next task.

The first branch of Next was only a few steps down the road, entering I chose a flimsy, lacy thong in pale pink, decorated with tiny crimson flowers, and a line of tiny crimson bows down the front panel. I took them to the girl on the cash desk and after paying for them, in the hearing of a couple of other women lining up to pay for their choices, I asked her if she would mind removing the price tag as I'd come out in such a rush that morning that I'd forgotten to put any knickers on and needed 'to wear them now'. Startled, and nearly as red faced as the young man who'd served me in the shoe shop, she hastily complied and watched in even greater amazement as I took them from her, bent to step into them and pull them up around me – disrupting my skirt as I did so. As my skirt fell more or less back into place I turned and left the shop, and walked down the street to the second branch of Next to repeat the performance – this time choosing a pair of panties of the same pattern, with added bows at the hip. At the third branch, I purchased a pair of matching French knickers; this time I managed to line up at a till serviced by a young male assistant and, like his male predecessor, managed to kindle a quite promising erection in addition to his blushes. I was now wearing three pairs of knickers, as ordered. I anticipated that the penultimate part of my task was going to prove rather more difficult but, first, there was another stage.

I walked the length of Oxford Street to Charing Cross Road, down Charing Cross Road until I found Lisle Street and there, as promised, was a sex shop. It took me a little while to screw up my courage and enter. I suppose I expected a seedy 'hole-in-the-corner' atmosphere. What I encountered was a mixture of Ann Summers, a thriving magazine outlet and a retailer of small electrical goods – almost clinically clean, with a thriving clientele and courteous staff. After I got my bearings I approached a young man at the counter and, as instructed, informed him that I wanted to 'buy a dildo, a vibrating dildo'. Nonchalantly, as though this was any every-day occurrence, which it probably was, he drew me to a display cabinet and proceeded to explain the differing merits of the various products he had available; and I eventually settled for a particular model to which, on his advice, I added a pot of lubricant. The rest of the customers seemed not to find anything strange about my purchase or the exchanges that lead up to it. Leaving the shop after some twenty minutes, I boarded a tube at Leicester Square and made my way back to Bond Street. The problem of fulfilling my next assignment returned. An idea struck me.

After ordering and consuming a Starbucks coffee and Danish, I paid a visit to their toilet – barely being able to resist the temptation to 'bring myself off', as I had been instructed not to do. Instead, after relieving myself, I took my nail scissors out of my shoulder bag and almost severed the waist bands of my three pairs of knickers. As an after thought, I also split both the side seams of my panties almost to the top.

Walking westwards, I threaded my way through the subways at Marble Arch and set out across Hide Park. On that glorious, if somewhat breezy day, the park was pretty crowded with visitors and locals alike. At the bridge over the Serpentine, I stopped to look over the parapet into the water below. Taking a deep breath to inflate my diaphragm I managed to slip my hand under my skirt between my body and the parapet, and wrench the waist band of my French knickers snapping it to allow my knickers to fall around my ankles. Ostensibly absorbed in whatever I was studying, even glancing back over the parapet as I began to move away, I managed to carefully step out of my knickers and leave them discarded in the side of the path, apparently totally unaware. Continuing my journey southward, I managed to shed my second pair of knickers by the Albert Memorial where a group of Japanese tourist watched amazed and amused, as I continued my walk seemingly unaware that my panties had fallen to the ground and I'd left them there. I was glad that I'd had the after thought that made me split the side seams, I'm not sure they'd have slipped off with anything like the ease they did, otherwise. I left my third pair of knickers in Brompton Road, outside Harrods where, again, an appreciative audience of tourists and locals watched me walk on seemingly unaware that my thong had slipped off and was left lying on the pavement behind me. Before completing the final part of my instructions, I treated myself to one of Harrods 'afternoon teas', again completely knickerless under my flowing summer skirt with my rigid nipples now thrusting hard against the confines of my blouse, itself confined and pulled tight by the waist band of my skirt.

Leaving Harrods I joined the tube at Knightsbridge to make my way back to Maida Vale via a change at Piccadilly Circus. My body ached for the release of my own fingers. My breasts and nipples felt near to explosion and my labia and clitty craved attention – but self relief was forbidden me. Feigning absorption in a magazine I'd picked up at the station, I continued to sit on the tube as the train stopped at Piccadilly until I judged the doors were about to close. At the last moment I leapt up and lunged for the opening; as I'd already released the fastening of my wrap around skirt I expected to leave my skirt behind me as I dashed for the platform. Somehow, the material clung around me but, as I barely cleared the narrowing gap without the doors touching me and rebounding open, the closing doors fastened on the now trailing material and my skirt was whipped away from me as the train gathered speed away from the platform – leaving me stood on a busy Piccadilly Circus platform dressed only in shoes, stockings, a suspender-belt and a blouse that reached only a couple of inches below my navel, my shaven pubis, by bare bottom and the slit and engorged lips of my shaven quim displayed to all the people around me.

After what seemed an age but was probably in reality less than a minute, as I stood on the platform counterfeiting bewilderment and panic, but in truth stimulated beyond belief by the experience, a woman in her early fifty's wrapped her light summer coat around me and hastily bid me to 'take it and get home as quickly as you can'.

That night, or rather early the next morning, I reported the outcome of my adventures to Ebb and Flo; only to be told that they were already aware of my compliance to their instructions 'you were filmed' I was told.

"You may now take out your dildo and use it to bring yourself off," I was told.

Of course, I regarded this as a command not a warrant to please myself – although in obeying it I was pleasing myself as my body, as tightly aroused as a bow string, cried out for the relief it had been craving in increasing measure since I'd left my flat knickerless and braless that morning. Applying the lubricant I switched on and, as advised, began to tease my labia with the softly vibrating instrument. The sensation was beyond anything I'd encountered before. No mere man, however proficient his masculinity, had ever been able to raise the delirium that suffused my body; and none of my female lovers and I had ever used any such toy before. In no time I had the apparatus vibrating and buzzing at its maximum speed, and I was plunging it in and out of my font – my vaginal wall muscles and my exultant clitty snatching and contracting on and around its pulsating rigidity. I'd never before had such an extended orgasm. I came and came and came and came again, my honey-musk flooding and flooding out. And all on camera of course, for the benefit of my controllers and any one else to whom they'd cared to grant access. Eventually, I recovered and, as directed, used my fingers to milk as much of my outpourings as I could and licked and sucked my vibrator clean.

"You will, of course, keep your pudenda shaved," was their final text, before they signed off.