I've wanted this for so long. I finally got the courage to find the right domme to help me, met her for an interview, explained what I wanted, what I needed. Oh yes. Needed.
I sit in a cubicle during the day and dream of the time coming soon, soon, and look at my calendar and mark the days. I sit in a cubicle and act demure and petite and smile and think "Just a few more days."
And after searching and interviewing and saying "this is what I want, what I need," the waiting, it's time and I am on the plane, my carry-on case tucked above me, and on the plane I am demure and petite and smile pleasantly.
But I am excited. Oh yes.
I arrive at my hotel, check in, make the call. I've dyed my hair. It's black and short and has a definite Goth look to it. I changed the color of my eyes to a darker, deeper brown. It isn't so much that I changed the outside of me; it's that I am changing the outer part to match the me inside, who is excited.
I dress in an outfit I had only dreamed of, with sheer lacey thigh high hose and half-boots that come just above the ankles, with laces and a stiletto heel, black and wicked looking and wonderful to walk in. I'm wearing a short tight leather skirt, a halter, and a short black leather jacket over that. I look in the mirror and I am excited. I put keys and money in my jacket pockets, but I'm not going to come back until I finish this journey. A nice girl would.
I look in the mirror, and the face shining back at me has black hair and dark eyes. This is not a nice girl. I smile.
My ride is here. The drive seems both too long and too short. The city is different, but I am focusing on what I am about to do. A small party, a trusted few. Others like me. A few guests, rich and voyeuristic. I smile.
When I arrive, I am hustled into a small room where Annie, a woman with thick dark hair, ushers me to a table. She applies more makeup until I no longer recognize my face. I wonder who the slut in the mirror is? Annie puts on wrist cuffs and a collar. She reaches around my waist and fastens a thin silver chain about it. I like how it feels, cool and slinky against my skin. She opens the side of my skirt and pulls it off, tsking.
"Don't wear panties next time!" Before I can say anything, she picks up a pair of scissors and cuts the fabric against my hips. I won't wear those panties again, anyway.
So I have hose and the little half-boots, a jacket. I have a collar and wrist cuffs, and a small fine silver chain around my waist. Can I really do this? I squeak when Annie reaches between my legs. "I want to make sure you're smooth," she says. I am. There is no hair, and the skin is delicate and sensitive. She has long red nails.
We can hear the party in the other room, people talking and laughing. Not many, but enough. I can't believe I'm doing this! Another woman is next to me now, also getting ready. She and I stand while Annie puts vacuum tubes on our nipples and clits. We stand there, not moving, feeling the swelling, while Annie checks on a young man who just arrived. After a time, she returns, wrapping thin threads around the base of each nipple and clit, so we stay swollen and tender. For me, Annie threads a chain through my neck collar, clips my nipples, and attaches each clip to one end of the chain. Every time I move my neck, I feel a slight tug on my swollen nipples. It feels strange and good and I'm getting wet.
I understand about the silver waist chain now: Annie tugs one end of the chain through a slightly larger link, having me to bend over. She clamps the base of my clit, attaches the clamp to the end of the chain, and tells me to stand. The waist chain digs into my waist a little, but it pulls and tightens the pressure on the base of my clit. I have to use a cloth to wipe the inside of my legs.
Soon after this, the Mistress comes in, examines us, makes a change here or there. There are three women and two men. Annie assists her. We walk down a hallway into a large room filled with sofas and chairs and people with drinks, wearing gowns and jewels. And I like it. I wasn't sure I could do this, but I like it. They can see me, look right at me, and I like it.
We were told that when we got to the room, we could wander around for a time before the exhibition would start. I follow another woman, but soon find myself alone. I begin to get nervous, but two men have seen me and motion for me to come over. I do, scared, nervous, excited – scared. They are older, wearing evening suits for a fancy dinner, one holding a glass of wine, businessmen who might be at any board meeting the next day, but tonight, staring at me.
One of the two men puts his hand on my rear and begins to stroke it, and I feel a quiver in me, and he chuckles. They know we aren't supposed to talk, but he says, "I think you like this, eh?" and his fingers curve around and down and find how wet I am getting, again. He chuckles again.
I open my legs and then lift up my right one and prop the shin on the edge of his sofa. He grins, and I put an arm around the back of his neck, leaning into him, stretching a little. I like it. I like it a lot.
Wine glass man dips his finger into the wine and then holds it out to me, and I lean forward and suck his finger. The first man is rubbing his open hand against my pussy now, flicking at my clit with his thumb at times.
"Lean down," he says, and I do. He begins biting my nipple and squeezing my clit with his fingers, rolling it back and forth. It's tender and almost hurts from the swelling and clamp, yet it also feels good. The man with the wine glass waves at someone behind me, who comes over. I feel hands coming from behind me to my front, up to my breasts, cupping them. It's a woman, the wine glass man's wife. The first man pulls one of her hands down until her palm is flat against my clit and its clamp, and she presses in. It hurts a little and feels good a lot. I lean back against her and push out my breasts.
Eventually I am passed to another small group, who decides that I should lie down on my back in their laps. They hold my wrists over my head and pull open my jacket. On my own, I lift up my leg and put it behind the back of one of the men I'm lying on. They laugh. Another man pulls up a chair and holds my other leg open.
"I think this one would fuck everybody in here," he says, and they laugh and grin and stroke and touch and I am nearly wild with pleasure. I'm a slut. I love it. All those fingers and hands and I am wide open and everyone can see what a slut I am, and I love that. Touching me, prodding, pulling at clamps, twisting, pinching, I love it.
Too soon, it is time for the exhibit. I have extra clamps put on my pussy, on the lips and to each side of the clit, clamps digging into flesh. I bend over as told with my legs open wide, and I can feel the strands of a flogger flicking my bottom, jumping up into the pussy, flicking against hanging clamps, and I jerk and moan and cum. They love that. I love them watching me. All sluts do.
The Mistress tells me that I am a slut and should be punished for being such a little whore, so she rubs the handle of her flogger between my legs, over clamps, between the lips, reaches around to my front and grabs the front of the flogger handle with one hand, keeping her other on the back end of the handle behind me, and she pulls up at an angle, back and forth, so I close my eyes and nearly cry from the pleasure and the wetness and cuming in front of everyone so they can all see and watch and hear me and know, she's a slut, she's such a little whore. I bet she could fuck all of us. I bet I could.
One of the male guests wins a prize and gets to spank me with his bare hand. By now, the new clamps on my pussy are hurting. The Mistress finally stops him and removes all of the clamps, and it hurts and feels good all at the same time. I have to get on a wooden pony now while she works the other slaves. I wriggle on the pony and orgasm, jerking my head back. My arms are tied behind my back. Annie comes over and puts new clamps on my nipples, tighter ones, and I am sore from others, yet I want more. I wriggle and move back and forth and cum again and wish I was on TV and everyone could see, and there was a camera focused on me and my pussy, sliding back and forth on the wooden pony, slick with my wetness, my thighs getting sore but me wanting more and more.
Too soon, too soon I am pulled off, and the last part is that I am laid on a small bench before the Mistress, and guests get to hold my arms over my head and pull my legs wide open, and she puts her high-heeled foot against my pussy and rolls it back and forth, gently, harder, gently, harder, until I cum again. I am so wet and sticky and slutty, I am a slut. At the very last, she pushes her stiletto heel gently against my clit, which bursts with fire and liquid and shivers and I hum aloud with a series of letters, gggging and ahhhhing and whimpering. She finishes, and lets them touch me, which is wonderful. I like that they see what a slut I am. I open my legs a little wider and arch my back.
"I bet she could fuck us all," I hear.
I bet I could.