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My Random Writing.

I'll upload short stories or parts of unfinished stories, or something, I guess.
18 hours ago. Wed 12 Dec 2018 03:33:37 AM IST

I was a boy when I read The Picture of Dorian Gray and, for a long time, it was my favorite book. In fact, though I almost never think about it, no other book has had such a large impact on my life. This is both for the better and for the worse. The character that has influenced me most isn't Dorian though. It's Sibyl Vane. Her character has dictated many of the choices I've made and perhaps every interaction I've ever had with a romantic interest. 

 

For those of you who have never read the story...well, I'll spare you the details of it. It's enough to say that as a young boy I couldn't understand why her character arc played out the way it did. Tragic as it was - as it was intended to be - it all seemed so simple to avoid. All Dorian had to do was be nice to her. To attempt to understand her. Had he been patient, things wouldn't have turned out that way. As a young boy, I resolved to learn from Dorian's mistake and I would never be so callous or cruel to a woman. 

 

I won't go into the details of my affairs with women. No one would really care to know and, honestly, they're quite unremarkable. But throughout each of them I never lost sight of what I learned as a child. You see, I had fallen in love with Sibyl Vane, the tragic fool. Perhaps it was because we were so similar. Her love was pure and enough to strip away meaning from everything in her life. She would sacrifice all for it and want nothing if she couldn't have it. I was the same. Or maybe I became the same so I could be more like the person I thought she deserved.

 

Patience. Understanding. Forgiveness. Sacrifice?

 

I have sacrificed so much on the altar of Sibyl Vane. Mostly things I was comfortable with losing. Things like pride, self-respect, and my sense of self. I became what these women needed me to be. I was patient with them. I understood why they did the things they did. I forgave them before they could even ask for it. It had some benefits. It's very exhausting, though. 

 

I'm twenty-seven years old. I feel much older. It's bitter irony. I wonder if Oscar Wilde knew what kind of effect the character of Sibyl Vane would have on someone young and impressionable. Perhaps. I'd like to think he did. Sibyl Vane is not real, of course I know that. But more than being ficitonal,the very essence of her character is a lie. She is a beautiful lie and Wilde uses her to show Dorian the "truth". That's all she is: a tragic, lovestruck, foolish girl. 

 

I spent my life searching for Sibyl Vane. I've found glimpses of her in inexperienced women. Women who have never been loved before. Who have never been listened to, or understood, or forgiven. She is a beautiful woman and she demands that you give up every aspect of yourself that makes you worthy of her before you can even be in her presence. She is the perfect prey because she only ever exposes herself to the most ruthless predator. Foolish. 

 

I hate Sibyl Vane. And I see her everywhere. Every woman who speaks to me reeks of Sibyl Vane and it disgusts me. I am repulsed by it. I try so hard to push her away but her haunting persists. She won't be satisfied until she meets her fate once again, again-and-again, and I am forced oblige. Women enjoy this, though. I've learned that. They must enjoy it, otherwise why would they have turned a boy like I was into a man whose love resembles nothing more than a great gnashing of teeth?

 

I hate Sibyl Vane. I regret having ever read that book and if I ever have a son, I will make sure he doesn't read it until he's already a man. 

 

I hate Sibyl Vane because I know she is destined to die by the hand of her first love. I hate her because even though I know her fate, I cannot change it. I hate her because I've grown to enjoy her death every time I see it. I hate her because I've learned that the only way you can truly love Sibyl Vane is to become the instrument of her destruction. You love her by letting her dash herself against you repeatedly until she is no more, then you wait for her to come along and do it again. 

 

 

 

1 day ago. Tue 11 Dec 2018 09:09:02 AM IST

Sometimes I talk to people who identify as "submissive" and the conversation always becomes forced and awkward. Every time I ask them why it is they're so reserved, they tell me that they're nervous because I'm "dominant".


This takes place with no dynamic being established between us. 

 

I would honestly prefer that I be able to talk to other people casually, on a person-to-person basis, free of the expectation of having to act like "a dom". As I type this, I always read people saying how attempting to dominate them after a short conversation is a no-no and I suppose what I'm trying to say here is pretty much the same thing:

 

When you talk to me, stop acting like I'm going to bite your head off if you misspeak. I'm a person, like anyone else. I have a dominant personality and specific character traits that come out in a sexual context. We are not in a sexual relationship so you're safe from them. And, honestly, get over yourself. It could be true that I have no interest in you with regards to BDSM, even if you're super cool and we have a lot in common. 

 

Then again, I brought this topic up with someone I was talking to and according to them, operating and interacting with BDSM dynamics worn on your sleeve is acceptable and expected - at least it is to them - so maybe I'm out of touch with the community. I am an old man, after all, I tend to be out of touch with most things. 

 

I've never been a flambouyant person. I don't like people who are easy to read, and I especially don't like people who are pretending to be something they're not. I can tell when someone is just a fantasist who just wears the mantle of "submissive" to play around, mostly because they make it easily discernable by their fixation on my "dominant" nature. I'm rambling. 

 

The point I'm trying to make is that you should try to relax. Have fun. Don't get hung up on rules and convention because there's always time for that later. It's honestly so difficult trying to have a casual conversation, making tongue-in-cheek comments and using self depreacating humor when the person I'm talking to hangs on to every word I'm saying in an attempt to squeeze some sort of sexuality out of it. 

 

Weirdos. 

2 days ago. Mon 10 Dec 2018 01:18:59 AM IST

Lying eyes,
they gaze lazily from across the room,
inviting you over with soft looks,
that mean less than you think.
You're drawn in by a smoky aura,
intoxicated by the smell of one vice mixed with another,
a vapour that robs you of reason,
and leads to the expectation of sin,
to the soft touch of lust,
and the taste of sweet indulgence. 


You find yourself wondering,
if there's anything else to see,
whether you're blinded by a creeping darkness,
or a simple half-lidded stare,
wondering if that's enough to forget past pain,
is it worth it to care,
about a lover who was never meant to be,
or to be satisfied with a locking of eyes,
to find happiness in the safety of fantasy,
free from the shame of wanting,
for something you cannot earn,
of finally being able to recognize a lesson lying in wait.

 

####

 

I've been having a bit of writer's block recently. Mostly associated with my main projects so I've been trying to focus a bit more on my erotic writing recently. I mean it when I say a 'bit'. I've had this idea for a while about a book set in an idyllic suburb that follows the dramatous sex lives of the unassuming residents - basically what Desperate Housewives should have been. Yes, I watched Desperate Housewives. Maybe I'll get around to writing that.

 

Probably not. 

 

I'll put out a few short stories while I figure things out. If anyone has any fantasies, scenarios, or whatever that they'd like to see in story form, feel free to let me know. The more niche and specific your desire, the better. Sometimes it's hard to find that one story that rubs you the right way so I'll give preference to anyone whose been looking for something special for a while. 

4 days ago. Sat 08 Dec 2018 07:40:33 AM IST

Life is supposed to be full of adventure. That's what Marcia Bridges always thought. Ever since she was a girl, she had been obsessed with the seemingly endless opportunity to explore life's great unknowns. To go somewhere she had never gone. To eat something she had never eaten. To love someone she shouldn't be loving. Tomorrow was always brings opportunity, but for Marcia Bridges, tomorrow was something that never seemed to come. 

 

Marcia was a pragmatic person. Pragmatic most of all, but nothing if not pragmatic. Despite her wonder at what tomorrow might bring, she always focused on the now. She studied hard, worked diligently, and married young. Children she would put off until her career was established. Of course, it wouldn't at all be reasonable for anyone to expect her to raise a child while she had to work until almost 11pm most weeknights. Slowly, tomorrow would become next week, then next month, then year, and finally, thirty years from now when she was retired.

 

By the time Marcia realized the truth about life - that it could be boring, and very predictable - the youthful naivety that facilitated the illusion of opportunity was long gone. That is, if she ever really had it in the first place. It was nothing worth crying over and certainly not something to be ashamed of. Not everyone could afford to live out their fantasies, after all. Fantasies, by their very nature, drew their appeal from the fact that they were so divorced from reality. And her reality only served to make her fantasies even more vivid. 

 

This Friday night had marked three months since she and her husband had put in a decided effort to start a family. Their sex life was unremarkable. Adequate would have been a better way to think about it but Marcia had decided that anything that was merely adequate could also be described quite accurately as unremarkable. Her husband, Sam, had himself always struck her as adequate. He was an adequate student when they met ten years prior while she was at college. He presented himself adequately to her father, who in turn held adequate opinion of her marrying him. He held an adequate position at an adequately performing company and brought them adequate profits to earn adequate pay, so he could provide her with an incredibly adequate life. As he lay between her thighs, thrusting slowly and stifling his own grunts though the closest neighbour was a hundred yards away, she couldn't get over how much he disgusted her.

 

That thought, it was something to be ashamed of.

 

Marcia had been having a lot of those recently. They came and went throughout the day, sometimes invading her consciousness before she could stop herself, other times requiring her to bite her tongue in order to maintain respect for her surroundings. Sam's body stiffened as he climaxed and collapsed on top of her. She cradled his head as his sweat-stained body soiled the lace negligee that he couldn't even muster the enthusiasm to take off her before having his way. He kissed her neck roughly, clumsy kisses than annoyed her more than anything else but it was his way of showing affection. Or thanks. Whichever came first. She turned her head to the nightstand where the blinking red digits of the clock flashed at her. He had lasted four minutes. Almost five. 

 

Quite...adequate. 

 

She gasped as Sam slid out of her and rolled over to his back. His chest heaved as he took deep, wheezing breaths. Within minutes he was asleep and Marcia laid there, unsatisfied but not necessarily frustrated, while his snoring filled the room. It didn't bother her now, like it had done when she was younger. In fact, she almost enjoyed it. The sounds of Sam's snoring drowned out her thoughts. Like white noise that allowed her to focus on nothing while her fingers trailed between her legs so she could complete what Sam had left unfinished. She brought herself to climax, as she always did, and finished by biting her knuckle in order to stop herself from moaning out loud. Afterwards, she turned away from Sam and brought her fingers to her lips so she could taste herself. She was aware that Sam wasn't snoring anymore, but that was fine. Passive-aggression was practically their love language at this point and, as she closed her eyes, she struggled to recall whether she had remembered to take her birth control that morning. 

 

Of course she did. And that was enough to allow her to drift peacefully off to sleep.

 

####

 

Saturdays were her day. She had convinced herself that she had deserved it. She would spend the morning cleaning things that the maid had already cleaned throughout the week before doing some shopping and returning home to prepare dinner for herself and her husband. At least, that's what she should have been doing. 

 

Instead she spent the entire morning in bed with her laptop propped against her thighs. After taking a shower to get Sam's scent off her body, as well as fixing herself a mug of coffee, she had browsed what had quickly become her favourite blog. 

 

She had come across it randomly while browsing at work. Randomly was a bad way to put it. She had satisfied her curiosity after bribing the nineteen-year-old IT technician to remove the firewall from her system. 

 

Initially she thought the blog was run by a couple. A man and a woman who were very open about their sex lives. Adventurous, even. To say it piqued her interest was to say not nearly enough. She had become engrossed in their sexuality. The way they interacted with each other. The way he presented her and made her look like a polished trophy that was displaying to the world. She wanted that. Needed it, even. At least, she needed to think she needed it. 

 

The blog had been updated the night before. While Marcia was stuck in bed with nothing but Sam's incompetent gyrations and her own fingers to keep her company, elsewhere, somewhere in the world, another woman was taking everything Marcia could ever dream of, and then some. She studied the pictures that had been uploaded, reading the captions and then studying the picture again as she tried to place herself in the moment. 

 

She let her fingers wander as she did. She licked her lips and wondered what it would feel like to have his cock in her mouth. To feel his bulbous cockhead scraping at the roof of her mouth. To drag her lips along his veiny shaft and have him grab her hair as he forced her to grind her nose against his pubic region. The fact that his partner always wore a mask made it easier for her to place herself in the woman's shoes, whoever she was. She placed the laptop beside her and used one hand to navigate last night's gallery while the other teased her slit. She loved how the photos escalated, from things Marcia thought she wanted all the way to things she would let him do to her. She always edged before the end but had learned to keep herself there before she got to the last photo. Today was especially rough for her and when she got to the final image - of his partner on her hands and knees, buttocks bruised, cunt soaking wet with a slightly gaping anus, along with thick ropes of his ejaculate splattered across her lower back - she felt proud of herself. 

 

She writhed in bed and let the waves of pleasure wash over her. She needed this, whatever it was, and knew that Sam would never provide it. She brought her fingers to her lips again, indulging in her own flavor absent-mindedly while she calmed herself down. She still had things to do, after all, and couldn't afford to spend all day fingering herself like she could as a teenager. 

 

As she sat herself upright and reached for the laptop again, Marcia noticed something about the final picture. She wasn't the type of woman to overly concern herself with other women's genitals. Other than passing thoughts inspired from this very blog, at least. But upon closer inspection, and by referencing older photos on the site, Marcia was able to confirm that this woman was not the same in the previous gallery. In fact, no woman appeared to be featured in a gallery more than once. 

 

Marcia bit her fingertip girlishly. The realization seemed so obvious now and she wondered how the thought had escaped her for so long. She moved her cursor over to the donate link and left a tip, as she usually did whenever she found the gallery particularly satisfying, before bringing herself to get her chores done. She had to keep herself busy today because from the moment she had realized what was happening in those galleries, mischievous thoughts had begun to invade Marcia's mind once again. Sly thoughts. Wicked thoughts. She enjoyed the threat of them, that someone like her could even begin to entertain such wicked aspiration. For the first time in a long time, Marcia Bridges saw...opportunity. 

 

####

 

It had been weeks since Marcia had come to her understanding as to the true nature of the blog. At first, she tried to stay away from it but Sam's poor sexual performance would lead to her solo expeditions into her own sexuality. What she would find scared her at first. It was like the images she had seen there were burned into her psyche. Every time she tried to climax through less-than-exciting fantasies, they would flash in her mind at the moment of climax as though trying to remind her of what she truly wanted. She had to give masturbation up, or tried to, but that didn't last very long. 

 

Her frustrations grew until, finally, she capitulated by allowing herself to masturbate while recalling the images in her mind. That much was enough. At first. Soon she once again masturbated by imagining herself in the position of those strange women. She wanted dearly to express her sexuality as fiercely as they did, something Sam would never allow her to do, and eventually, even her fantasies left her unsatisfied. The thoughts she had struggled against for weeks following that morning eventually sprung forward once again from the recesses of her mind. She knew what they meant and what they urged her to do. Weeks ago, the thought scared her but, now, she felt inspired, empowered even, to take the opportunity that lay before her.

 

####

 

It shocked Marcia how easy it was to take the necessary steps once she had decided to throw caution to the wind and finally satisfy her desires. She had pondered over how she would explain the trip she was about to take to Sam. In her mind, there was no way she could excuse herself being gone for days to her husband without him getting suspicious. 

 

It had been far simpler than she had imagined. She simply said she was taking a business trip and Sam accepted it. He didn't ask what it was for. He didn't ask where she was going or for how long. He simply accepted it. Even as Marcia booked her ticket, she thought Sam was pitiable. Foolish, but pitiable. Even confirming the purchase was a thrill to her. Her heart was racing in her chest as the bright green checkmark appeared on screen. Things were in motion now. She had crossed the threshold from fantasy and harmless flirting too action and intent. It was going to be glorious.

 

####

 

It had been a long time since Marcia allowed herself to feel sexy. Instead of her usual attire, she wore a simple black dress tonight. It showed just enough cleavage to draw attention to her assets and was tight enough to accentuate the shapely curves she had developed and gracefully maintained from a background in track & field. The past three days had been nerve-wracking. She swung from pacing in her hotel room, phone in hand and ready to call Sam so she could explain herself and beg for forgiveness, all the way to cursing the very thought of him if it would interrupt her while she browsed the blog and tried to make a mental checklist of all the things she planned to have done to her. 

 

Regardless of how she felt, it was too late to back out now.

 

The man she met was nothing like Sam. He was taller, younger, but not by much, and simply oozed sex appeal. He had a deep voice and full lips that Marcia couldn't wait to kiss. His hands were large and when he touched her, she could feel that his fingertips were rough against her skin. Just imagining them being shoved inside her holes made her soak the black thong she was wore to avoid pantylines. 

 

They met in a public place as was agreed upon, but soon caution was thrown to the wind as she allowed him to take her back to his hotel. She loved the way he led her. She held his arm and pressed close to his body as he checked them in. They thickness of his limbs and the way his muscles bulged as he casually moved made her feel like she had made the right choice. All apprehension faded away as she followed him into the elevator. She was close to what she wanted. Finally. She tried to maintain an air of mystery and restraint, but it was clear she was eager. And it was obvious that he could tell. 

 

"Give me your panties," he muttered as the elevator doors closed. Marcia felt her stomach sink.

 

"Here?" she asked, not quite comfortable with his request. There were cameras in elevators. She knew that much. 

 

"Are you going to pretend you're above it?" His words stung, but Marcia couldn't blame him if he thought of her that way. She had been a bit too open, perhaps. He knew she was married, knew how much of a fan she was, knew every sordid detail of her sexual desires. Her conversations with him while organizing this tryst uncovered desires that she didn't know she had. It seemed like every suggestion he made struck to her core and built upon the foundation of her lust. She wanted him and didn't care how he took her. And he knew that.

 

She couldn't bring herself to admit that he was right, though. But she knew she had no choice but to comply. She leaned against the wall and tugged the hem of her dress upwards so she could shimmy the waistband of her panties until they slipped past her thighs and fell loose around her ankles. The heels she wore made retrieving them awkward and undignified - she certainly couldn't find a way to make the motion sexy - but when she passed the wadded-up fabric to him, he pocketed it with a pleased expression. "Good job," he said. 

 

Good job. Marcia felt as though her heart was about to beat out of her ribcage. He made no more requests of her until the elevator stopped moving. Marcia felt herself slightly disappointed. She expected more passion but, as things stood, she was caught in a limbo of desire and anxiety. "You're much more reserved than I had imagined," she mentioned as the door opened. 

 

Her companion looked at her as she spoke. She hadn't noticed before how tired his eyes seemed. "Is this you trying to take control of the situation?" he asked. 

 

Marcia bit her lower lip and he laughed to himself. "Relax," he whispered as he reached his hand towards hers and took her by the wrist. "I know you've been looking forward to tonight. Don't get lost in your expectations, live in the moment."

 

She exhaled deeply as he pulled her close. His touch was sensual as he moved his fingers over her lower back and down to cup her firm backside. There was a ding and the doors began closing while Marcia closed her eyes and allowed him to kiss her. It was so...different from anything she had experienced before. His kiss was hungry but delicate. She parted her lips and let her tongue be exposed to him. She wanted him to want her, like he had wanted those other women. She wanted that firm, guiding hand down the abyss of her own sexuality. She wanted a night she would never forget. Something she could look back on and be proud of. 

 

She wanted him to be her adventure.

 

####

 

Marcia had been in hotels like this before. It was a step above the usual accommodations she was used to while on business trips. She wished she could see what the inside of their room looked like but, as she stood now, she was blindfolded and led forward by nothing but gentle words of encouragement. 

 

She trusted him. She had to. Maybe this was some sort of test. She followed his instruction and stepped forward comfortably as her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She walked with confidence but somewhere in the back of her mind the image of her tripping over her own heels and making a fool of herself loomed.


"Right there," he said finally, "turn towards my voice."

 

Marcia complied. She was ready, so ready, for him. She was already slick with desire. She wanted to be used, masked and presented as this man's next escapade. She wanted to leave her boring self behind and be fucked like a piece of meat for once. To be truly satisfied. She bit her lip. "I'm ready," she said, hoping to spur him into action.

 

"No, no, no." he muttered. "There you go again. Trying to take control of the situation." 

 

Marcia shifted her weight from one leg to another as she felt a hand at her shoulder. She didn't know whether she should apologize or not but the hand moved to her neck before she could speak. She exhaled and flexed her fingers while the zipper at her back was undone and her dress fell to the floor, leaving her naked except for the brassiere she wore to make her breasts appear slightly larger than they were. 

 

The bra was unhooked and pulled away from her, leaving her blind and now fully naked. It was exhilarating. She moved her hands over her taut stomach and down between her legs where her waxed sex waited, already aching for his attention. 

 

Lips were upon her body now. They sucked on her neck as rough hands groped her breasts from behind. She gasped and leaned back into his chest. "Yes," she moaned, tilting her head back as a thumb and forefinger closed on the stiff peaks of her nipples. Her knees bent as she gyrated against his body. "Kiss me," she whispered, adding, "please..."

 

No sooner than she made her request, a pair of lips met her mouth - a pair entirely separate from the lips at her neck. She reached up to remove her blindfold, but her hand was stopped by a firm grip at her wrist while the person behind her held her by the other elbow. 

 

"Stop trying to take control," his voice came again. It was disconnected, somewhere far away from where she was. "Relax and live in the moment. All the plans and expectations you had for tonight...let them go. Have fun for once."

 

Marcia whimpered and then, after a moment's hesitation, embraced the kiss of the other man. She moaned as another pair of hands joined in. There were three men upon her now, pawing at her body, fingers probing, lips kissing, teeth scraping at her skin. She had never felt herself so on fire. "How many?" she asked. 

 

"For a woman like you? Never enough."

 

####

 

Marcia tried her best to keep track of the men around her but eventually the decided to follow the advice given to her and just went with it. Before Sam, she had been with three men. He only knew about two of them. It was a strange feeling not knowing who the cock in her mouth was attached to, but it was stranger still to know that the man whose cock she was sucking was not the man whose hand was in her hair. It had been months since she had performed oral sex on Sam but within minutes of being placed on the bed, she had already pleased at least four men using her mouth. 

 

She was on all fours, shoes removed, and with a mask placed over her blindfold to hold it securely in place. She could hear the snap of photos being taken in between the moans and grunts of the men around her and, soon, she added her own whimpers of pleasure to the noisy din growing in the room. 

 

She loved the feeling. The less-than-gentle way the men helped themselves to her body. She loved how over time she was able to give identity to each of the men just by how their cocks felt in her mouth or in her cunt. She learned how one like to thrust eagerly when she clenched on him and would try to do so when he took a turn at her backside. Another loved when she would attempt to deepthroat him and fail, gagging and coughing as he took hold of her head and shoved his cock into her mouth. She especially loved when she would hear the click of the camera. It was as though she could feel the flash of it against her skin. Knowing that her depravity was to be immortalized and displayed for anyone to see only made her appetite more voracious. When a cock would enter her mouth, she sought not only to please, but to satisfy. Finally, for the first time in her life, someone ejaculated in her mouth. 

 

Marcia didn't know how to react and considered spitting it the salty, almost gelatinously-thick load of cum that coated her tongue. As though reacting to her intentions, a hand clamped over her mouth and her head was tilted back. "Swallow it, whore," someone grunted, "you ain't spilling a drop tonight." Marcia swallowed, almost gagging as the load slid down her throat and settled in her belly. Rough fingers invaded her mouth, inspecting under her tongue. 

 

"I told you she's obedient," someone said. "Have fun, boys."

 

####

 

The soreness set in a lot quicker than Marcia expected. Her lust persisted though. She survived having two men inside her cunt at once; being made to straddle one man while her anal virginity was taken slowly, and then almost everyone present took a turn in her back door until it was swollen and tender; she swallowed and had cum splashed across her body and rubbed into her skin until the room was inundated with the pungent stench of sweat and sex; her ass was smacked until it burned; she was strangled, face fucked, and made to moan until her voice went hoarse; water breaks came in between sucking smelly cocks that were already smeared in her juices. And still she wanted more. 

 

Slowly the men around her lost stamina. Their erections were soft and their ejaculate thin and watery. It took them a long time to cum and their thrusts were deep and rough. Sex was more painful than anything else for Marcia now, but she soldiered on, desperate to get everything out of the night.

 

Keeping track of time was almost impossible but she assumed hours might have passed. By the time the last man had his way with her, she splayed on her back with her legs spread, skin sticky with cum and sweat and whatever else had been splashed on her while the men took turns disrespecting her body. She knew that the majority of men had left and after this man was finished, he would too. This ordeal - her adventure - was over. 

 

####

 

Marcia awoke to a sore body and an offensive stench about her. Moving ached and she instinctively looked to her side to find out what time it was. 

 

"I thought you'd sleep for a lot longer than that," came a voice from across the room. 

 

Marcia sat up quickly and immediately regretted it as pain shot up her spine. She winced visibly and settled herself before pulling the dirty and stained sheets about herself in an act of modesty. "What time is it?" she asked.

 

"It's just before sunrise," the man said. "Whatever time that is." 

 

Marcia brushed her fingers through her hair and felt it clumped and sticky. It was disgusting but she wore it with pride. She looked across the room to the man who sat across from her. To the man who set this evening up and brought her out of her shell. He was fully dressed as he was the night before. She had hoped that one of the men that had indulged in her body was him and had actually put some effort into trying to guess which one he was. It was disappointing to come to realization that he had withheld himself from the orgy. 

 

She bit her lip and ignored the pain as she dropped the sheets and crawled out of bed. She wanted him, they both knew it, and after what she had been through the night before, she had the confidence to act on it. 

 

He looked at her curiously as she approached him and stood between his knees. "What are you doing?" he asked. 

 

She blinked and looked at him. "Don't you want me?" she asked. She couldn't help but have a slight hint of disappointment in her voice. The previous night was something she would never forget but she had come for him, hadn't she? The adventure wouldn't be complete until she got what she came for. 

 

"No."

 

No.

 

"No?" Marcia asked. "What do you mean 'no'?"

 

"I mean 'No, I do not want to have sex with you'."

 

"I know what the words mean," Marcia spat. She struggled to find the words to express herself and finally came to the realization of what was happening. Her eyes narrowed. "How dare you..." she muttered. 

 

"How dare I what?" the man asked. He wasn't looking at her now, preoccupied with fishing a cigarette out of a box he kept on the small table beside where he sat. 

 

"Are you seriously looking down on me? Judging me?"

 

"And what if I am?"

 

Marcia's voice caught in her throat. "I did all this...everything for you. To make you happy!"

 

The man laughed. "If you want to believe that, feel free."

 

Marcia shook her head and stepped away, back towards the bed, and sat on it, wincing again as her bruised backside reminded her of her escapades the night before. "You're not better than me," she muttered, burying her face in her hands. "Don't you dare think you're better than me."

 

The man inhaled deeply then exhaled sharply. He lit his cigarette and looked at her while he puffed on it. "What do you want me to say?" he asked. "Do you want me to tell you some story about how I manipulated you into coming her and acting like a fiend? I could, if it would make you feel better about yourself. I'm not judging you for what you enjoyed doing - and you did enjoy doing what you did - but don't you dare say you did anything for me. You don't know anything about me. You disgust me."

 

Disgust. 

 

His words stung Marcia. "You...," she said, starting a rebuttal before letting her shoulders sag. "This isn't fair."

 

"Life isn't fair. You either let it pass you by or live in the moment. But don't blame other people for what you choose to do." He spoke the words as though he had said them many times before. Marcia couldn't look at him as he stood up and left her sitting in her shame. "You know, of all the women I've ever been with, you're the first who went through with this. The others had the common sense to stand up for themselves and say no. I liked that about them."

 

Marcia shook her head in response, she didn't know what to say. 

 

"Be proud of that if you want," he continued. "That's at least better than the truth, right?"

 

####

 

Marcia Bridges had never been the type of woman for adventures. She was brought up to be pragmatic. To be safe. To weight the options and make the right decisions. She always hated that. She felt that life passed her by and she was missing out on experiences that she needed to feel whole. To feel satisfied. 

 

And she was right. There were a lot of experiences passing her by as she laid in bed with her husband. Nights full of pleasure and men who knew the right way to use her body for their pleasure. She thought about that experience still. Sometimes. Even months later, she would lay awake and listen to Sam snore while she trailed her fingers over her swollen belly. 

 

She had told him what she did. She didn't know how to live having not told him. She felt like she needed to lay herself bare before him and was ready to be thrown aside again. To be disgusted with. 


She turned her head to the side where Sam lay and moved herself closer to him. He was warm. She trailed her fingers over his arm and up his shoulder until she poked at his jawline. He awoke with a jump and blinked several times before looking at her. "Did I wake you?" he asked, sleepily, eyes struggling to focus on Marcia as he carefully turned towards her. He placed his hand on her belly and gently rubbed it, smiling as he felt the baby turn and kick as it usually did at this time of night. 

 

"No," Marcia said softly, "I was just thinking of what an amazing man you are."

 

6 days ago. Thu 06 Dec 2018 06:04:05 AM IST

My first wife was a beautiful woman. High school sweetheart. You know how the story goes. We got married right after we graduated. We loved each other - as only teenagers could love each other - without a care for our parents' disapproval or any sense of worry about the future. We loved each other. And that was enough for a time. I miss that youthful, naive me.

She was a lot smarter than I was. Pretty too, but I do so love intelligent women. She went to college and I worked odd jobs to help her pay her way through. The culture surrounding higher education didn't appeal to me and she knew it. Of course, thinking back, she was probably ashamed of me. It's why she never wore her ring. Or why she never told any of those men that she was already married. It was just harmless flirting, of course. I trusted her. As only a teenager could. Looking back, I could hardly believe that was me.

It was my fault for showing up without calling first. I wanted to surprise her, you see. She had a new life then. Developed a taste for partying - a life of alcohol, and drugs, and other men - and, well, her new life didn't have much space for me.

I was already crying when I got that phone call from her mother. She had overdosed and had been found dead. I put aside how upset I was and agreed not to attend her funeral. I had warned her, after all, but she thought she was smarter than me.

I learned my lesson and my second wife. Boy, she was a fun one. She had been through that phase already and had come out the other side quite a bit wiser. She had her troubles, mostly things to do with how her family treated her when she was young, but she was desperate to find love. Very lonely that one. She thought she could love harder than me.

You see, I didn't want to repeat the mistakes of the past. And I was no longer quite so young. I could provide everything this woman wanted which was easy, considering she never quite wanted for much. Well, she wanted children but I wanted to wait. I needed to be sure. Love would never again bring out the worst in me.

She impressed me, you know. I miss her a lot now that I think about it. Really took to being a wife, that one did. But the past sometimes refuses to stay where it should. And for the first time, I realized that the problem was me.

According to her friends, I was very controlling. Mostly because I refused to let her follow them and indulge as they indulged. And suffer as they suffered. Eventually she took a break - a weekend trip away to clear her head - to spend time with her old friends. Time alone so they could poison her mind and turn her against me.

She never came back home, that one. And neither did I. I couldn't believe how upset it made me to have it happen a second time. And neither could she. At this point I'd learned to pick up on patterns and I'd never again let a woman make a fool out of me.

My third wife, now that was a woman. She was fierce and powerful. Totally lacking the flaws of my previous two wives, she always sought to challenge me. I wasn't intimidated in the least by her ways and she liked that. She was used to getting what she wanted from everyone. She was used to capitulation and backstabbing to get her way. But by that time I was already a man and my God, how she grew to hate me.

She would dig at me. Every day was the same. She would insist that I was stupid, backwards, and stuck in my ways. She would purposefully come home late and miss dinner dates. God, how I loved that woman. She tried everything in her power to break me down. Of course, eventually, she would chip away at me.

You see, she was right. I was stuck in my ways. But with age I had grown tired of running away. That much had changed.The basement floor ended up getting a few new layers of concrete. I still smile at the irony whenever I go down there, but it helps that all of her money went to me.

So here I am. Without a wife, though I'm certainly in the market for one. I like to think of myself as a romantic, a hard worker, and someone with some reasonably high expectations. I know, of course, you wonder why I'm alone. You see, throughout my life I've known some very amazing women but they all, without exception, manage to upset me.

2 weeks ago. Mon 26 Nov 2018 10:41:06 PM IST

"Three times a week is an addiction."

That's what I used to tell you, way back when things weren't so serious. Back when I didn't know you would snore if your day ran even a little long. Yet, once again, for the third night in a row, I find myself laying beside you as you sleep.

This bed isn't mine. I wasn't used to affluence. I grew up sleeping on a thin, yellow-sponge mattress with a piece of cloth for bed cover. It doubled as blanket when the nights got cold. You, on the other hand, couldn't sleep unless you had the right sheets and your pillowcases were the right thread count.

I didn't even know there was such a thing as thread count.

You laughed that off, though. I liked that about you: you didn't expect much of me though you gave me all that you had to give. On nights like this, I wonder if I'll ever have your...everything.

I look over to where you lie. Your body is half-concealed, wrapped loosely in the bedsheet that had been torn off the corners of the mattress. I'd like to say something romantic about the moment. Something like how the moonlight falling across your body, made you look forever youthful. Or maybe that I could listen to your breathing for hours. That'd be nice, I suppose.

The reality of the situation is a lot less remarkable. The sounds of the city, even this late at night, made it almost impossible for me to hear the subtle sound of your breathing. The light that crept in through the window was lifeless and unfeeling. It showed me your softness, your curves, your strawberry-blonde hair...but, beneath that, everything I wanted to know about you remained hidden.

Light pollution. I remember you had used that term once. I'm still not sure what it means but I think I'm starting to understand in my own way.

There's a line of clothes going back out into the hallway, leading to the living room where our tryst began. I find my jeans next to the bedroom door - I vaguely recall you tossing them over your shoulder after I got in bed so that makes sense - and as I pull them on I realize that in the five months we've been sleeping together, I have never seen you wake up in the middle of the night. You'll wake up when your alarm goes off at five a.m., take a shower, get dressed and leave. I won't be here to see it but you aren't very unpredictable. At least you're not to me.

Your husband on the other hand. Well, I wonder about that sometimes. What kind of man is he that he drives you to behave this way?

I like to believe he's abusive. Maybe in that classical way. He gets drunk and beats you every couple of weeks. The neighbors in your quiet suburbia will pretend they don't know what's going on but they'll come around the next day and make small talk to check if you're all bruised up.

No, that's not it.

Maybe it's just boredom. After eighteen years of marriage, he's grown bored of you. That must be it. He doesn't notice anything you do. He doesn't thank you for the things you do for him, and for the family. I bet he doesn't even notice when you don't come home at night. How any man could go without noticing you absent from his bed is beyond me, though. That's probably not it either.

Ah, he's a cheater. That would make sense. Maybe this is revenge for his own infidelity. Now wouldn't that just be poetic? This very apartment would be where he kept his mistress. He gave you the key to it as a symbol of trust but this is where he would be on those nights he told you he was working late. This is where he'd fuck his mistress. In the same bed you just fucked me in earlier tonight. God, you are such a devilish, vindictive bitch. I love it.

That must be it.

That must be it. Because if that's not it then somewhere, a half hour commute away, is a man who had dinner alone for the third night in a row. For the third night in a row he told his teenage son that his mother was working late again. For the third night in a row he tucked his daughter into bed and promised her mommy would do it tomorrow night because him, well, he just doesn't do it quite right. That must be it because, if that's not the reason you're doing this, then we'd be the monsters, wouldn't we?

You're supposed to be older and wiser than I am. This is my mistake but why are you here? What is it about me that you find so irresistible? Is it regret? Do I remind you of a boyfriend you had long ago? Your first love, perhaps. I should know, right? I should at least know why you do the things you do with me.

As the thought crosses my mind, I watch you roll over and reach into the darkness. Reaching to where I should be laying if I wasn't off letting my mind wander. It's genuinely surprising but, strangely, it makes me happy to know that I'm wrong about you. I can tell you won't last more than a few seconds though and, within moments, the sound of your light snoring joins the din of the sleepless city that surrounds us.

I walk over and sit on the bed beside you. My hand moves over your back and you stir as my warmth settles you into the night's rest. I wonder: have you been here before?

"Oh," I say out loud, "that would make sense."

It's a strange feeling, finally figuring out what this was. I am something to be left behind. That's all I will ever be to you. Something to be left behind just as you were left behind. A sacrifice so that you can finally meet the someone you're so desperate to catch up to. Someone you need to believe is waiting for you at the end of this road.

I wonder who he was. Was he the guy who taught you do that thing with your tongue?

I smile. I smile knowing that you'll never love me. Knowing that you'll go back to your husband, happy and satisfied. I won't hear from you until you feel that itch; one day, I won't ever hear from you again. That's fair. I must believe that it's fair. I don't cherish you and I don't think I ever will so I can't believe I deserve better. At least not until I leave someone behind, myself.

So here's to you, lady. Wait for me just a little bit ahead. In a place where love makes love and monsters make monsters. We'll look back on this moment together and we'll both feel regret for totally different reasons.

Neither of us will dare say it wasn't fun, though.

2 months ago. Mon 17 Sep 2018 08:18:55 PM IDT

I don't remember your name. I can't recall exactly what you look like either.

I know you have green eyes and I tell myself that they were the reason I couldn't resist approaching you tonight. The truth is that I wish they were brown.

I know that your body is hot. Temperature-wise I mean. It's like you're one or two degrees hotter than anyone else is. It's interesting. As my hands finish pushing your jeans and panties down until they're bunched up around your hips, I wonder if it's because you're turned on. Maybe you're sick. I don't know.

You didn't seem the kind of girl to hook up but, honestly, I was starting to realize that I didn't understand women at all. You clearly took the time to get dressed, do your hair, and put on makeup. But now you're face down in a stranger's dirty sheets. There's probably someone, somewhere who loves you. Someone who would treat you better than I'm treating you now. So why aren't you with him?

I don't understand women. That much is true.

Your hips are a bit wide. I suppose it'd make sense if you were some kind of Spanish. I can feel your hipbones against my fingertips when I grab your waist, as well as you eagerly pushing back against the cock you've so diligently nursed into a rock-hard erection.

Being inside you is...strangely familiar. I suppose sex isn't that much of a unique experience after all. My hands move up your stomach. It's flat, but you still have a bit of baby fat. I might have thought that was cute if I took the time to think about it.

My hand in your hair, I pull you to a standing position. You're tall for a woman. It's attractive in it's own way. Your breasts are small but, as my hand slips under the tight tank top you were wearing, I find out that they're quite sensitive as well.

You tilt your head back and look up at me. Your full lips are parted and there's a half-lidded expression on your face that screams...something another man probably would deserve to hear more. I'd kiss you but your breath reeks of dick and alcohol. I don't think I could respect you any less than I do now.

I let you fall back to supporting yourself on your hands and elbows. You don't move again. You're just like me. You probably hate me, and what we're doing, as much as I hate you.

When things are over, you don't even look at me. You pull your panties up, and then your jeans. We didn't use protection - maybe if you got pregnant or I caught something, this would have had some sort of meaning. That's what I'd like to think, at least.

You mumble something at me. I can hear sadness in your voice and I know that there are tears in your eyes.

"Yeah. Call me anytime," I say. You don't even have my phone number.

The door closes. I'll never see you again. And that's alright. It's how things really are, I guess.

It's not so bad.

3 months ago. Tue 14 Aug 2018 04:37:13 AM IDT

Sarah Broges was a well-respected professional. She had worked her way up in the corporate world after having entered with no relevant qualifications. Armed with nothing but an eagerness to learn and a desperate need to excel and outcompete, she had become one of the most powerful women in the company's history.

Nearing thirty and nestled comfortably in an executive position, she was used to a certain amount of authority and power over those below her. Whether it was teasing and overworking the interns or being an iron cunt to the coworkers she had left behind on her ascent through the corporate ranks, she took joy in reaping the fruits of her efforts. She wasn't a bad person, per se, it was just that she knew how to get what she wanted.

Sarah Broges also had a secret.

It started when she was just about to enter her twenties. Never having popular in highschool, she had entered adulthood without much experience with men. The internet had provided an avenue for the male attention that her raging hormones demanded and, over the next few years, she had managed to lose herself in the culture of exhibitionism.

At first it was as innocuous as showing a bit of cleavage on her blog. And then her panties. By the time she was twenty-one, she had shown every inch of herself. She had also developed a fairly loyal following.

By the time she started working as an intern, she was taking requests. Posing in various positions, wearing outfits and lingerie that her fans supplied, and even roleplaying as a participant in their various, weird kinks. That was where her love of petplay began. The first time she slipped on the collar provided by a long-time devotee, she for the first time felt as though she had found her own identity. Whether she was being a kitty, bunny, bitch, or fox, she never felt more free and turned on than when she was able to leave her professional identity behind. Even if it was only for one or two hours a night.

It had been many years since then. The blog was a relic of the past, though she still saw pictures and videos of herself reposted every now and again. She had learned to satisfy herself by browsing the submissions of younger, more beautiful women. She simply did not have the time to indulge anymore.

She did this at work, of course. It was the perks of having her own office and the IT boy wrapped around her finger. It wasn't like she had anything better to do. Her position required very little other than the ability to yell at people whose only failing was not exceeding expectations. It did leave her lots of time to exchange emails with a gentleman she had gotten in contact with only a few months prior. He was polite, charming, and well-spoken. All while being dominant enough to warrant keeping a spare pair of panties and a ziploc bag in her purse.

She was supposed to meet him for the first time that afternoon. She wouldn't amit it, even to herself, but she was very excited. It was the first time she would be taking her online persona into the real world and the thought of it made her absolutely drip with anticipation.

 

####

 

 

Sarah Broges was the most pathetic little thing you had ever seen. She had a tendency to attempt hiding her naked flesh with her hands when her owner rattled the cage every morning to wake her up. She had been in this man's possession for...a while. She wasn't sure how long it had been anymore.

He crouched and unlocked the cage, opening the door and stepping away from it as he spurred her into motion with a snap of his fingers. Her joints ached after spending the night coiled into the corner to conserve her own warmth. Her skin burned after hours of the metal digging into her flesh. She knew the marks would remain for days. And that it was intended.

She kept to her hands and knees, eyes directed at the floor as her owner closed the door behind her. She had tried to escape before. She had even overheard the police interviewing him while she remained, bound and gagged, in the basement of his house. Her body was covered in the markings of her most recent punishments. Sometimes she wished the welts and bruises wouldn't heal so he couldn't find smooth skin to abuse.

With another snap of his fingers, she moved to a kneeling position. She sat on her heels as he circled in front of her. His finger moved to her chin and he forced her gaze to shift towards his face. She hated how normal he looked. She almost wished he was an ugly, evil man or an exceptionally, if not deceptively, handsome one. He just looked "normal" and that was the most terrifying thing about him.

She opened her mouth to speak. To beg for him to let her go. She would leave and never return. She would swear that she wouldn't report him to the police and the worst part was that she meant it, too. She just wanted this to be over.

As her mouth opened, his hand moved forward and before she could form the words his middle and pointer fingers were already hooked onto her lower jaw. His fingertips pressed painfully into the floor of her mouth making it impossible to bite him, even if she wanted to.

His expression was soft. Gentle, even. His free hand brought a collar - her collar - from where he kept it and he fit it snugly around her neck. "Oh you," he said in a deep, soothing voice. "You know I love it when you think you're people but you're going to have to be quiet today. I'm not in a very good mood."

Sarah Broges nodded. Animals can't speak, after all. She remained silent and still as he latched the collar in place. It almost choked her but she was used to it. With another snap of his fingers, she returned to her hands and knees before proceeding to crawl towards the stairs.

The worst thing about her situation, and the part that was the most torturous, was that she had never in her life considered how dreadfully boring a dog's life must be.

1 year ago. Sat 09 Dec 2017 05:19:08 AM IST

[I started writing this on the request of someone else. The characters and scenario is their idea. Unfortunately certain events in my life led to me losing interest in continuing story. 

For those interested it includes: FxF, interracial themes, and there was supposed to be a heavy foot-fetish vibe, but I never got around to including it. Hell I didn't even proofread this shit, but enjoy.                                                            ]

 

 

Maisha Chowdry stood before the tall, wooden door, having just pressed the bell. She took her phone from the front pocket of her coat and brought the screen to life with a swipe of her thumb. She brought her shoulders up, attempting to protect the device form the drizzle of rain that made the brisk, December morning even more depressing.

            There was little remarkable about Maisha. She was short, well, average height for a woman, though she was too tall to be one of those petite girls that seemed to get all the men’s attention – not that she cared much either way. She wasn’t exactly stylish, as anyone passing by as she waited for the door to be answered to could probably tell. She wore a pair of jeans that she had bought years ago, she couldn’t even remember where, and a pair of thick-lensed glasses sat comfortably on her face. Her coat was reasonably expensive, as far as quality went, but the choice of colour made her feel unremarkable. Almost like a background character in her own life.

            Maisha pressed the bell again, the dull buzzing continuing only as long as she kept her finger on the button. It was about as unceremonious a way to announce her presence. It suited her well. She had never been one to make an entrance, or command attention.

            The door opens suddenly, the heavy, varnished wood moving in easy and graceful silence. Maisha found herself face-to-face with an older woman. She was white, pale, not in the way Maisha’s brown skin had lost its lustre from months out of the sun, but in an almost radiant way. She wore simple makeup that not only hid her age, but made her features more fierce and respectable.

            “Hello,” the woman said. She had a slight accent, though Maisha couldn’t quite place it.

            “Hi,” Maisha responded. “Are you, um, Miss Anna? Miss Anna Bockshevsky?” She blushed, not sure of she pronounced the name right, far less for if this was in fact the woman she had come to meet.

            The woman didn’t respond. Instead, she stepped backwards, allowing Maisha to enter.

            As soon as the door was closed behind her, Maisha could hear the sounds of the outside world fade away. The atmosphere inside was warm and inviting, almost making her feel as though she had on too many layers entirely. This was especially true when she noticed that the woman who had let her in wore a dress made of thin, black fabric. She had a slender build that quite matched Maisha’s, but her posture accentuated her gentle curves much more.

            “You are Miss Anna, right?” Maisha repeated her question, this time hoping to get an answer. She felt as if she would die if she had entered the wrong house. She started to feel the confidence she had built up since she set the appointment to meet with the domme.

            “Yes,” the woman, Miss Anna, said. “And you are Maisha, the young, and very curious writer?”

            Maisha blushed. “Curious, yes.”

            While it was true that Maisha had only contacted Anna Bockshevsky to do research for her upcoming novel, she still had to pay for the woman’s time. It took little talking to get her to agree to meet with Miss Anna in person, and by the time arrangements were even made for Maisha to experience the domme’s craft first hand, she was already wet between the legs.

            In fact, Maisha blushed again, somehow scared to look Miss Anna in the eyes. She felt as though the woman’s gaze pierced her somehow. That she would know from simply locking eyes that Maisha had barely slept last night, and how she had been up past 1am with your bare chest writhing against the bedsheets, her hand working furiously down the front of her white, cotton panties while the other read testimonials from Miss Anna’s previous, most satisfied clients.

            “Follow me,” Miss Anna said, leading Maisha with naught but the curl of a beckoning finger. Maisha followed sheepishly, her expensive, yet out of season, boots making clumsy footfalls on the varnished, wooden floor while Miss Anna’s stylish stilettos clicks sharply, each sound demarking one more step towards Maisha’s goal.

            Just to see what it’s like, she told herself, biting her lower lip. She let her eyes flow down the woman’s exposed back, down to her backside where the cut of her dress allowed her to only imagine the pale, tight backside that caused the dress to shift so seductively with every step.

            The room that Maisha was led into reminded her of the private offices of old men that had lived two decades too long past the point where life is enjoyable. The décor was of wood and leather, everything from the heavy chairs to the leather-bound books held the colour of a deep, suffocating brown that made Maisha feel as though she was being smothered by her surroundings.

            Miss Anna’s pale skin stood – or rather sat -  in stark contrast. It was more than Maisha’s girlish affection that kept her eyes on the older woman. It was as though the room itself was designed to draw attention to her as she sat in Zen-like stillness on a small, velvet-chair in middle of the room.

            “Please, sit,” Miss Anna said, gesturing to a matching sat that was set adjacent to hers.

            “Yes, sorry,” Maisha said, sighing in relief as she moved around the small table.

            Miss Anna’s lips curled. “You don’t need to apologize. You paid for this time, remember?”

            Maisha nodded. She was intimidated by older woman. Miss Anna’s fierce beauty made it uncomfortable to look upon for extended periods of time. At least, to someone as meek and submissive as Maisha knew herself to be – and something about the wicked smile on Miss Anna’s face betrayed the face that the same realization was slowly dawning on her.

            “There are no,” Miss Anna’s eyes narrowed, “phones allowed here. “At least not phones that are capable of recording video or audio.”

            Maisha blushed aggressively. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. She had read the instructions, and re-read them, but she couldn’t do without her phone for the sake of business. It was also a bit of a nervous habit as, like the rest of her generation, she would bury her nose in her social media when she felt threatened or awkward.

            “Don’t apologize,” Miss Anna said. If she tired of repeating herself, she didn’t show it. “Give it to me.” She held her hand out, but refused to extend her arm. Maisha pressed her knees together nervously and stood up, taking the two steps required to deposit the device in the woman’s open palm.

            “I didn’t intend to –“

            “Unlock it.”

            Maisha flinched at the words. They were a command, not a request. Maisha felt a pit in her stomach. It was as though she was standing in front of her mother again, being scolded for keeping secrets. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered, reaching down and drawing the tip of her finger across the lit screen to unlock it.

            Miss Anna leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs at the knee as she turned her attention to whatever pleased her. Maisha, on the other hand, stood in place with her feet together and her arms nervously clenched at her thighs. “I’m,” she started, only to be interrupted.

            “You know why I don’t allow phones here?” Miss Anna asked.

            “Privacy.” Maisha replied. She knew full well and felt like an idiot for being so careless. “Privacy is important.”

            “Yes, privacy.” Miss Anna continued scrolling through the phone. “Do you know what it means to have your privacy violated?”

            “I do now…” Maisha’s tone faltered, her gaze drifting away as embarrassment stung at her cheeks.

            “Undress.”

            “Excuse me?” Maisha was slightly taken aback. She had expected things to go a bit more slowly. “I’m not really comfortable…”

            “That does not matter.” Miss Anna cut her off again. “Plus,” she smiled, “I’ve already seen your naked body.” She turned the phone towards Maisha. On the screen was a picture she had taken a few weeks prior of herself in the nude, posing suggestively in front of her mirror. She hadn’t taken it to send to anyone in particular. In fact, she would never be bold enough to actually send it to anyone. It was just something she did to make herself feel a bit sexy; what she thought would be harmless fun.

            “Undress,” Miss Anna repeated. “I will not ask again.”

            Maisha bit her lip. She should leave, she knew that. She had already embarrassed herself and Miss Anna, though she didn’t seem annoyed, was clearly different from the inviting woman she had met just a few minutes before.
 

 

                                                                                     *********************

 

 

“That’s fine.”

            Miss Anna’s words came just as Maisha slipped her jeans off, having just removed her boots. She stood braless, with nothing but a pair of cotton panties and a set of embarrassing rainbow-coloured socks that reached up just past her ankles. 

            There were all that were clean.

            Maisha picked her glasses up from where she had left them on the table and wrapped her arms around her torso to conceal her bare breasts. If Miss Anna disapproved her hiding herself, she didn’t show it.

            “Very good,” Miss Anna said. “Fold your clothes and place them in a neat pile on the ground. Right here.” Miss Anna pointed with her finger to a spot just beside her chair.

            Maisha agreed, hastily folding the clothing before walking closer, bending at the waist.

            “No, no.” Miss Anna tutted. “Kneel.”

            Maisha flushed, but she slowly sank to her knees before stacking her jeans on top of her shoes, and her pullover and coat completing the stack. She felt Miss Anna’s hand caressing her face and looked up.

            “Glasses,” Miss Anna said simply.

            Maisha reached up, removing her glasses and placing them in Miss Anna’s hand. The woman folded them, sticking the frame down the front of her dress to keep them in place. Maisha squinted. It wasn’t as though she couldn’t see without them, but the added strain did make her feel a bit uncomfortable.

            “Do you like pain?”

            Maisha bit her lip. “Yes.”

            “Yes, Miss,” Miss Anna said softly, correcting Maisha’s rudeness. Her hand returned to Maisha’s face, her thumb moving slowly over the trembling girl’s lower lip.

            “Yes, Miss.” Maisha stammered. “I’m sorry, Miss.”

            “Clasp your hands behind your back.”

            Maisha complied, sighing as Miss Anna’s hand moved over her chin, stroking the length of her neck before she trailed her trimmed fingertips across her breasts. Maisha resisted the urge to squirm. It had been months since she had been touched by someone else and her nipples stood embarrassingly erect in the cold air. A fact that did not escape Miss Anna’s attention as the grabbed the stiff peak of her left breast, starting a gentle pinch between her thumb and index finger that slowly increased in intensity.

            Maisha bit her lower lip as she tried her best not to react orally.

            “Look at me,” Miss Anna said.

            Maisha complied, matching the woman’s gaze once more.

            In an instant, she felt a stinging blow to her cheek. She gasped, sucking in the cold air as her cunt throbbed. “I’m sorry, Miss,” Maisha whimpered, though she wasn’t sure what she had done. She quickly directed her vision away, looking down towards the wooden floor.

            “Shut up,” Miss Anna said her voice barely a whisper. “Look at me.”

            Maisha looked up slowly. Her hands remained clenched behind her back. “Miss Anna, I…” She felt the sting of another slap, this one making her yelp, half-moaning as she felt her eyes water.  “I’m sorry.” Maisha averted her gaze again, only to have Miss Anna repeat herself, her voice remaining calm and giving off an almost seductive tone of authority.

            “Look at me,” she said.

            Maisha looked at her, biting her lips as she braced herself for what she knew would come. The sound of Miss Anna’s open palm smacking her cheek killed the room once again and Maisha grunted in barely-restrained pleasure.

            “You need to be punished, don’t you?” Miss Anna said. “You crave it.”

            “Y-yes,” Maisha said, breathing heavily. She could feel the crotch of her panties becoming more and more damp with each word out of her Mistress’ mouth. “Punish me, please.”

            “Who are you speaking to, you ungrateful little whore?”

            “You, Miss Anna. Please…” Maisha begged with her eyes and saw Miss Anna reach towards her again. She braced for the strike but, instead, found Miss Anna’s hand carefully cradling the base of her neck.

            “Come,” she said, leaning back in her seat and pulling Maisha towards her. The hem of her dress had slid up to reveal most of her milky-white thighs. “On all fours,” Miss Anna’s direction was firm, yet gentle, and Maisha soon found herself on her hands and knees before her seat.

            Miss Anna stood up, returning a few moments later having recovered a leaf of paper from her desk. Maisha didn’t question what was happening and when Miss Anna resumed her position, sitting at the edge of her chair, she bit her lip in expectation. “Miss?” she said softly.

            “Shush now, child,” Miss Anna said comfortingly. “There are important matters to be taken care of before we have out fun.”

            Maisha pouted. She could already feel the wetness between her legs growing uncomfortable, and the fact that her knees were pressed to the cold, wooden floor – while it hurt – only reinforced her submissiveness which, in turn, made her even wetter. “Miss Anna, please,” she sulked. She craved for the older woman do…something. Anything. Anything that would let her know that she was being good.

            “I said quiet,” Miss Anna tutted. Maisha could feel the sheet of paper being placed on her bare back and, soon after, the tickle of a fountain pen being traced delicately across its face.

            Maisha resisted the urge to squirm, trying her best to be good. But, at the same time, she felt an ache in her core. She wanted attention. She simultaneously hated being ignored but also loved Miss Anna’s subtle dominance over her body. She wanted more. “Anna,” she said, voice quivering, “I want more.”

            She swallowed, feeling the pen stop and feeling the leaf of paper being removed. “Rudeness will not be tolerated,” Miss Anna said sternly.

Maisha felt herself clench at the woman’s change of tone.

The sharp ‘click’ of Miss Anna’s heels sounded again as she stood up, moving behind Maisha who swayed her hips, hoping to catch the attention of Miss Anna’s firm hand. She bit her lower lip, moaned, “Yes,” her voice barely audible.

She felt Miss Anna touch her waist, moving her hands down around her hips. She could barely contain herself. The wet spot in her crotch was in full view, and the humiliation of it was making the problem worse with every passing moment.

However, instead of striking Maisha’s tight backside, Miss Anna’s hand slipped down to her calves and, one after the other, removed her bright-coloured socks. There was a moment of silence but Maisha dared not turn to look. She clenched her toes in embarrassment and waiting, finally feeling Miss Anna’s steely fingers grip the hair at the back of her head. “Open your fucking mouth,” she commanded, and Maisha complied without complaint, only to have the pair of socks – wadded into a ball – stuffed in her mouth.

Maisha’s jaw ached but she dared not eject the fabric from her mouth. The way it was lodged behind her teeth, she wasn’t sure she could remove it without using her hands.

Miss Anna took her seat yet again. She returned the paper to Maisha’s back and continued writing on it. “You may whine,” she sighed, moving the pen slowly as usual. “I do so like it when you whine.”