Whore Pt. 01

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A submissive is given the choice to be Her Whore.
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For what felt like hours, I was left with only the sound of my breath to keep me company. Lacking even vision - which had been stolen from me by the soft embrace of padded leather set over my eyes - any sense of time was diluted, extended, made utterly meaningless. I could hardly recall the details of the chamber I'd been brought to, so lost was I in the dark embrace. I could remember only that it was lit with the flickering light of candles and nothing else; that it was large; and that the furniture awaiting its occupants ranged from a leather-padded X-frame to a leather-padded sawhorse, with a bed covered in shining latex bedding as its centerpiece.

Of course, I could also remember the gleam of chains - a gleam I was reminded of on those seemingly rare occasions when the clink of metal links intruded upon my otherwise monotonous existence, made only of the slow inhalations and exhalations of my breath and the slower beat of my heart. I was reminded of that gleam, too, by the pleasant ache in my shoulders and along the length of my arms, where they extended above my head. My wrists were gripped in leather of similar make to the blindfold around my eyes, and the cuffs themselves were chained - to what, I knew not; I knew only that it must be something in turn attached to the ceiling, to hold me so perfectly upright, so perfectly straight.

Whether it had in truth been hours or mere minutes, after what I could only later recall as an eternity the blindfold was stripped away - and with its departure, I was granted sight once more. But it was not the flickering candlelight against wood, steel, and leather to which my eyes were directed by reflex. Rather, it was a reflection: of myself - but it was not me, too. Gone was the woman with whom I was most intimately familiar, the secretary who wore flirty fabric blouses and skirts; replacing her was the Slut. The Whore.

The Whore - I could hardly look at the reflection staring back at me and consider her to be me - fit her name perfectly. My eyes began at her - my - hair in the mirror, long and shining black waves that spilled down over slender shoulders, that framed the pale face of a woman made into something painfully erotic; her eyes, a deep blue, were lined in thick black and her lashes were made long with mascara, all of it shadowed in a deep violet so that even a glance could promise worlds of pleasure. But it was her - my, I had to remind myself over and over - mouth that truly promised sin and delight: full lips were made fuller by black lining and red, red, red lipstick so that her mouth begged to be used, to be smeared with all that lipstick, for the perfect makeup to be ruined in an orgy of ecstasy.

But it was not just my face - not her, now, for I could not delude myself into thinking I was looking any longer at anyone other than myself - that screamed Whore, that begged to be used. Standing as straight as I was, forced to my toes by the chains holding my wrists, the long line of my body was a taut testament to desire. I wore only lingerie - but none of it offered the soft seduction inherent to silk or satin; instead, I had been dressed in the shining and polished smoothness of latex. First, there was the collar, a devilishly simple strip of latex that clasped at the back of my neck, and which held at its front the gleam of a steel ring and the sort of small bell found on any pet's collar. Had I been naked except for that, I would have been an image of pure erotic desire, of innocence perfected into sin; but it was merely the beginning.

The rest of my body was nearly naked, and where it was not naked it was dressed with the sole purpose of highlighting the nudity that left the rest of my pale form vulnerable. My arms, hung still above me and stretched to their lengths, gleamed with the shine of polished black latex - a choice of material and color that would be matched by all that my Mistress had dressed me in. The gloves coated me from fingertips to biceps, leaving my shoulders bare. My breasts - perhaps a bit more than a handful each and made immune to the envy of gravity by the mix of money and talent - were left bare, capped with already achingly hard pink nipples and the shine of a steel ring through each. As if the surgeon's talent hadn't been trusted, the next bit of latex I wore presented itself in the form of an underbust corset that cupped beneath each breast like a jealous lover, buckled into place by four separate straps at my back that had been cinched tight.

Lovely as my Whore body was above the waist, below it was only more so. In the way my breasts remained bare, so too did my pussy - no, that is not what I was staring at, shaved bare and already glistening with the damp of arousal. It was not my pussy that invited thoughts of licking the dew from puffed petals: it was my cunt. My Whore cunt. The thought almost made me groan all on its own, and it was all I could do to remain upright and not sag against the chains. Lower, then, I had to look - and lower, I found stockings to match my gloves, gleaming black latex that encased the length of my legs and my feet.

"I trust you like what you see, mm?" The low and sultry tone of my Mistress's voice, purred, came from somewhere in the room - but precisely where, I could not begin to pinpoint either due to my own focus on the image of myself staring back at me or some trick of acoustics. But where the source stood or sat mattered little, for that purr sent shivers along my spine and forced my breath to catch. When I answered after a moment, my voice could not hope to match that tone - my words came out breathless in comparison, each syllable dripping with wanton need: "I do."

Mere seconds after that affirmation, I cried out and my back arched. It was reflexive, a thoughtless attempt to retreat from the abrupt and harsh sting of... something. At that moment, I wasn't sure whether it was a crop, a whip, or a cane; I knew only that it hurt where it struck against my upper back, and that the sting was itself exquisite. For a moment after, I could only pant and work to wet my suddenly dry mouth enough to speak without croaking, so that I could add the necessary title I had forgotten, "Mistress."

As my breath slowly returned to normal and as my focus retreated from the sting in my back, I could hear her move. Slow and methodic, her steps carried her around the room, around me. Against the hard floor, the sound of her heels - there could be no question that she wore stilettos, both because I knew my Mistress well and because the sound itself offered no other possibility - was an exclamation point, a statement that denied any attempt to refute the simple truth of the room: she was in command. She was the Mistress.

Which left me as her toy, her plaything, her submissive - her slave. Or yes, her Whore. Erotic as the sight of my reflection was and exquisite as the sound of her steps were, it was the constant reminder of my place and of what I was that most ensured that my cunt was slick for her. I was her Whore - and I reveled in that fact eagerly.

"What do you see, when you look in the mirror?" The question retained that low and sultry purr, as if sound could caress along skin the way a hand might, or could kiss at an ear the way lips would if closer. I looked again at the mirror, stared again at the wanton image of slutty and whorish desire that stared back at me, and nearly whimpered. What I saw was a wanton and debased woman, a woman made into an object of sex and lust, stripped of autonomy and the modern trappings of individuality. What I saw was a Whore.

And so I told her as much. "A whore, Mistress. Your Whore." Again, my words came breathless, as the very act of admitting the obvious stole me of my ability to breathe normally and robbed me more fully even than the chains still holding my wrists of any ability to pretend I was free to move, free to go, free to deny that my pussy veritably ached with every hard click of her heels as she circled me, unseen in the shadows of the room.

When she made herself seen, as with all things, my Mistress did so with perfect effect. She was behind me, and so I glimpsed the shine of black latex within the reflection of the mirror beyond my own. It was a boot, for my eyes could not help but be lowered with the weight of my burgeoning submission. Still, I gave her her due and lifted my gaze along the image at my back, tracing the lines of those approaching boots, lingering at the silken lace of a stocking's end where the boots ended at her mid thigh. Up further, I dragged my eyes, to take note of the skirt shining like an oil slick where it clung to the flare of her hips and her upper thighs.

What my Mistress wore above the skirt, I caught only a glimpse of: something white and not latex, but I saw no more of it before she had pressed her body to my back. At last, I moaned softly and pressed back against her, knowing by feel alone that I had been right, that whatever she wore over her upper body was neither latex nor leather but something softer. Then it was her face that stole my attention, hovering as it seemed to just above my shoulder, with her lips just beside my ear.

Her face was a revelation. Aphrodite would have been jealous of that which I looked upon in the mirror, while any porn star would have sold her soul to look the same. While I began my perusal of my own Whore's reflection with my hair, I could not help but begin at my Mistress's mouth. If my own black-lined and blood-red painted lips held the promise of sin's fulfillment, my Mistress's held the threat of the same - a threat surely any man or woman would accept readily, but a threat all the same. It was a threat that she would consume you, would devour you; and more than that, that you would delight in it until you could delight no more. Those full, red lips were curved in the smallest of smiles, and I was struck by the simple realization that while my mouth begged use, her's demanded it.

It took a monumental effort to look higher, and it was made more difficult still by the way she spoke nearly against my ear, so that those lips - that mouth - brushed the shell of my ear as the words purred forth and poured into my consciousness. "I trust, dear Whore, I meet with approval." Her eyes, I watched stroke over my reflected image. She possessed me with that gaze, reflected though it was; had it not been reflect, I shudder to think what that gaze may have done to me - it would have undone me utterly, left me hanging by the chains. As it was, I could look into those sultry brown eyes for only so long, enhanced as they were by dark eyeliner and mascara and shadow.

Surely, she felt me shiver, for she was pressed directly to me - her tits (if my own were only a bit more than a handful, my Mistress's were two or three handfuls each) pressed to my back like soft demands in their own right, so that I could not refuse to arch my back just so and let my head fall back until the shining black waves of my hair blended with the crimson curls of her own. The question was ludicrous, and I let her know that with only my eyes, staring at our commingled reflections from beneath heavy lashes veiled with lust.

But I spoke as well, because not answering was simply not an option. "You are perfection, Mistress."

The response was met with a chuckle, a sultry thing that contained little mirth and much promise - and threat. That was her way, with me; it was her way with everyone who found themselves in her chamber, her grasp, her possession. She was Lust, capitalized, and with her claiming came the promise that every sensual desire would be satisfied; but with it came, too, the threat of every lust's satisfaction, of an irrevocable and undeniable consumption of one's whole being.

There were no further words for several moments, and so I was left to watch the reflection of us - of Mistress and her Whore - as she explored my body with fingers and lips. Her hands seemed to be everywhere all at once, though they moved slowly, trailing up along the front of my corseted body to cup over each handful of tit, kneading and caressing. Her mouth was at my neck, at my ear, kissing and suckling - and biting, almost gently, just enough to ensure that even when the latex of my collar was removed I would remain marked as hers.

I could only moan and press against her, tilt my head to offer more of my neck, and lose myself in her every attention. Words could not find their way to my lips, and they would in any case have been unnecessary. At last, my vision was stolen once more - but this time, by my own eyes closing as my Mistress's hands released their hold at my breasts and slid both down and up. One hand cupped beneath my chin like a velvet vice, turning my head to the side so that her perfect mouth could find my own; the other cupped lower, over my pussy, so that I couldn't help but groan into the kiss and writhe against her hand. I begged with my body, with the small trembles that coursed through me and with my mouth as I opened myself to her and suckled at her tongue - I begged more fully, more wantonly in that moment even than my Whore body had already to be used, to be taken, to be fucked.

The kiss lingered, and with it lingered my Mistress's hold: at my chin and my cunt alike, though only the hand gripping my chin remained still. That other hand, wicked and dexterous, remained only as still as I was - which is to say not at all. While I writhed, those fingers petted and stroked, sliding along the already lust-slick petals of my pussy, sliding between and along the slit between - and finally pressing, briefly, fleetingly, exquisitely at my clit. It was enough so that when the kiss broke, I gasped for breath and whimpered, offering wordless pleas for more.

Surely, more was to come. Just as surely, it was not to come so swiftly. Once the kiss broke, my chin was released. The hand cupping between my thighs remained, but only for another moment, just long enough for my Mistress's middle finger to bend just so and to press upward, pressing up into the damp invitation of my cunt. But that finger's penetration remained shallow - and then gone, leaving me panting with the desperate and wanton desire of a true Whore. Again I looked at the mirror, and if I had been a Whore to begin with, already I had become something else.

We had just begun, my Mistress and I. But already I was lost to my wantonness. While I stared at myself in the reflection of the mirror, my Mistress moved away - and surely by no accident, I caught just a brief glimpse of the tip of her finger, shining with my arousal, disappearing between the sinfulness of her lips so that she could taste me.

"I do hope you're prepared for the evening, my lovely Whore. It is going to be long and filled with exquisite frustration." With that final purr, thick and sultry and hanging in the air even after her departure like audible perfume, I was left once again alone, stretched, and on my toes. But this time, I could watch myself in the mirror; this time, my inner thighs glistened with want; and this time, I wasn't given the gift of the blindfold so lose myself in the dark embrace of nothingness.

Chapter 2

After my Mistress's departure, I was left alone and still bound, still hanging by my upraised arms gripped in cuffs and chains unless I stood on my toes. It was like standing in spiked heels, but without even the precarious support of those small points at my heels - or rather, like ballet boots, given the steep angle of my feet were forced into to provide any semblance of support. It took me long moments to breathe normally, and even then there was my reflection: Whore, staring back at me through lashes made thick with mascara, with her mouth promising everything.

But the moments of silence and heady serenity were shattered by the higher-pitched and girlish voice that intruded. "So, like, you have to be moved. But you're really hot and stuff, and she wants to make sure your tongue is all prepared for her, and since she wouldn't let me cum... " The voice trailed off just as its source stepped into view, around the mirror, so that I looked at the image of my Whore reflection side-by-side with my Mistress's servant. Or her maid. Whatever she was, despite her airy and girlish voice and flippant, almost valley girl-esque speech, I groaned at the sight of her - and the knowledge of what she was capable of. My Mistress does not accept anyone into her service who isn't worthy, and Susi was no exception to that rule.

Behind the facade of girlish carelessness resided a wicked mind, and behind the lenses of her fashionable eyeglasses, her blue eyes could switch in an instant from innocent to being filled with kinky plotting. It was that that made me groan: she was plotting. Despite the pigtails into which her black hair was pulled, any feigned innocence was lost in those eyes, highlighted as they were by eyeshadow and liner that started hot pink and blended into something a bit less severely bright. The smirk that rested upon Susi's mouth only made the cupid's bow of her hot pink lips all the more enticing.

"But you really are all hot and stuff. It's almost a shame to move you, you know? I mean, your feet must be starting to hurt, and your arms are probably exhausted, and your tits are entirely too big." It was almost ironic, coming from Susi. My Mistress - our Mistress, really - outdid both of us completely in that regard, but it was true that my tits were larger than Susi's. It was true, too, that the girl was either jealous of that fact or incredibly good at pretending - and the sudden smack of her hand against my left breast proved it, as I gasped.

Dressed in what a French maid would wear if French maids were inherently sluts, Susi stepped closer after that slap, so that she blocked out my view of the mirror and I could only look at her. My eyes traced her form slowly, and I couldn't help but lick my lips; she had mentioned making sure my tongue still worked, and I wanted desperately to lick her everywhere. Already, I was planning the route my mouth would take, if only she would let me: I would obviously begin at her feet, kissing at the toe of her faux Mary Janes and trailing my attentions up from there.

I would kiss along her coltish legs, making sure that the shining white latex stockings she wore in lieu of the more stereotypical silk or satin were properly polished and gleaming in my wake. Where the stockings ended at her thigh, I would taste her skin at last, and savor every inch of it before my mouth met with the hem of her skirt - a thing so short that it could almost be called a ruffled belt. Again, I would taste the smooth, slick flavor of latex as I pressed my lips and tongue to that skirt, and then perfectly pale skin once more at her midriff. There, I would linger and play with her navel piercing before going higher, to the black-and-white halter top of latex that held her smaller tits, and then to the ruffled latex collar around her neck, and finally her pink, pink lips.

Of course, none of that was to happen - at least, not immediately, and maybe not at all. Instead of the chains holding my wrists being loosed to let me fall desperately to my knees, to bow my head and to genuflect while I adored the maid's feet, she simply moved away after angling the mirror just so. Gone was the image of Whore staring back at me, and replacing it was the sight of Susi's pert little ass beneath the latex skirt, and the bounce of her pigtails as she walked. Her destination was immediately apparent, and that made me nearly whimper: a small steel frame that resembled a much sturdier lawn chair, but when unfolded - as Susi did - it became a terribly low seat, mere inches from the floor, and the seat itself was little more than two wide strips of some stretchy material with space between.

I knew what that chair was used for, of course, and already I couldn't help but lick at my lips in anticipation. At least part of that fantasy that had flashed behind my eyes would come true, it seemed. Susi, of course, could well guess what that fantasy was, and so chattered brightly as she brought the small seat closer to me: "So, I know you know what this is for, right? And God, you're such a slut - look at you!" I couldn't, of course, but I knew what she meant.

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