Saturdays are my day off. The one day of the week I cannot be a good daughter, worker, friend. A day with the phones switched off and the door locked. A day to just be me. Saturday night though, that's a different story.
If you looked through my window at about five on a Saturday afternoon, you'd see a woman in her mid-twenties getting ready to go out. I wax religiously, leaving only a narrow strip of soft curls to cover my pussy. I tried the bald look for a while, but it wasn't for me: it's bad enough my face looks sixteen, the rest of me doesn't have to match! After the wax comes a shower and hair wash, followed by body cream. By the time I'm ready to dress, my skin shines like a pearl and my waist-length hair falls down my back like a sheet of molten chocolate. The clothes themselves would mean nothing to an outsider. A flared black skirt just short enough to hint that I'm not wearing any knickers, an almost-transparent black top, skyscraper heels to show off my naked, moon-pale legs. Nothing that any girl out on the pull would hesitate to wear.
The key, the giveaway, is the fine silver chain linking my nipples and just barely visible through the gauze of my top. To those in the know, that means just one thing: this slave wants a new Master.
This Saturday, I looked particularly fine. Even Tom, my downstairs neighbor, a man whose taste runs to Californian golden girls with silicone tits, whistled as he saw me heading out, chastely covered by my grey trench coat. I sat in the back room of a bar in Soho, looking around to try and spot any appropriate men. There was no shortage of talent, but most of it was already attached. One couple had obviously read too many stories and was wandering around in strappy leather gear – fetish stuff. Those who are truly part of the scene would never advertise themselves like that! I finished sipping my drink, a vodka and tonic, and settled the glass back on the bar. No one in there was the right man for the job. As I reached for my coat, a firm hand settled on my waist.
“Stand up,” a deep male voice commanded.
My knees went weak at the sound. For me, a Master has to sound like a Master, even more than he has to look like one. I stood up straight, feeling the hand at my waist slide the mass of my hair away so that the man could see my shape properly. I breathed in deeply, trying to separate his scent from the thousand other odors in the room. I caught a whiff of musk and whisky, a deeply smoky, sexy smell. Mark three: touch, sound, and scent. This man was feeling better all the time. But I didn’t dare get my hopes up; they’d been raised and dashed too often before.
“Turn around. And keep your eyes on the floor.”
I did as I was told, my hair swishing back into place as the hand came to rest just below my breast. It was large and square, clean with long fingers and short nails. I imagined those fingers curling up inside of me, that voice telling me to cum. I started to get wet. And let me tell you, when you’re wearing a short skirt and nothing underneath, it quickly becomes obvious when you’re aroused.
“Good girl,” he soothed. “You can look up now.”
I raised my head slowly and looked him in the eye. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, but I had no idea how I’d missed him. Without breaking eye contact, he reached down and touched the top of my inner thigh, seeming pleased at the slick cream he found there. Taking my coat, he slung it about my shoulders and led me out into the night.
We walked for a short time before coming to a stop outside one of the big townhouses in Holborn. As yet, I had not said a word, only those three short sentences in the bar had passed between us. I should have been afraid, but instead my nipples were like bullets beneath the clamps, and I was wetter than I had ever been in my life.
Once inside the house, he told me to strip and go into the room on my right. The library, for such it was, seemed to have come from another era. I waited in the middle of the room for my instructions.
“Bend over the back of the chair,” he told me, removing something from the drawer of a desk.
I obeyed with alacrity, almost ashamed that my arse was white and unmarked. I hadn’t been paddled for months, so I knew it would hurt, but when the first crack sounded and I felt the sting, I gasped. Five more powerful blows followed the first, and I knew that my cheeks would be fire-red. I also knew that just because I’d taken six of the best, it didn’t mean I could move. I heard him murmur behind me, apparently amused by the fact that I was leaving a creamy mark on the back of his expensive leather chair. He slid one of those long fingers inside me to stop the flow, forcing a moan from my throat and yet more moisture from my already sopping-wet cunt. By leaning forwards a little further, I could put pressure on my swollen clit. I was desperate to cum.
“Oh no, not until I say so,” he laughed, withdrawing his finger and coming around to the front of the chair. “Here,” and he gave me his wet finger to suck on.
I could taste my own juices and licked at them avidly, my eyes fixed on his fly as I did so. Working my body onto the floor in front of him, I nuzzled into his crotch and tugged at the buttons concealing him from me. I risked one glance up into his face and saw an indulgent smile before carefully removing my prize from its hiding place. Slowly, I trailed my tongue up from the base of his cock to the silky tip, already beaded with precum. Sucking slowly, I drew as much cock as I could into my mouth, relaxing my throat to take more. He groaned and pulled my head away in half a minute, pushing me down to the glossy wooden floor as he did so.
“That was naughty.”
The word bought a fresh gush of juice to the surface, and I slid my legs wide apart, tempting him with the sight and smell of my body. I knew I was misbehaving, but I had to test him. I had to see if this man was Master, or just a man who liked to play. A rumbling laugh and instructions to roll onto my knees gave me my answer. A player would have simply taken me; he wanted to show me who had control. I arched my back, pushing my bottom up into the strokes of his hand. The regular swat of his hard palm was like a metronome, unrelenting and unvarying. By the time he was satisfied with his work, I knew my cheeks were red and swollen, and it was all I could do to keep from begging him to fuck me. One hand slid round to my nipples, tugging at the chain linking them before sliding down to my belly, then lower, checking that I was still wet. I was almost surprised that his fingers weren’t burnt by the furnace heat I was giving off. With two fingers, he parted my swollen, soaking lips. Then, at last, I felt the tip of his erection butting up against me and thrusting inside.
“Now,” he said.
It was all I needed: I came, almost collapsing onto the floor as I did so.
He took me upstairs as soon as I had recovered, his still-hard cock tucked back into his trousers. I was allowed to suck him properly in the big bed, taking his cum down into the back of my throat before he buckled a collar around my slender throat. I had a new Master.
What did it matter that I didn’t know his name?
If you looked through my window at about five on a Saturday afternoon, you'd see a woman in her mid-twenties getting ready to go out. I wax religiously, leaving only a narrow strip of soft curls to cover my pussy. I tried the bald look for a while, but it wasn't for me: it's bad enough my face looks sixteen, the rest of me doesn't have to match! After the wax comes a shower and hair wash, followed by body cream. By the time I'm ready to dress, my skin shines like a pearl and my waist-length hair falls down my back like a sheet of molten chocolate. The clothes themselves would mean nothing to an outsider. A flared black skirt just short enough to hint that I'm not wearing any knickers, an almost-transparent black top, skyscraper heels to show off my naked, moon-pale legs. Nothing that any girl out on the pull would hesitate to wear.
The key, the giveaway, is the fine silver chain linking my nipples and just barely visible through the gauze of my top. To those in the know, that means just one thing: this slave wants a new Master.
This Saturday, I looked particularly fine. Even Tom, my downstairs neighbor, a man whose taste runs to Californian golden girls with silicone tits, whistled as he saw me heading out, chastely covered by my grey trench coat. I sat in the back room of a bar in Soho, looking around to try and spot any appropriate men. There was no shortage of talent, but most of it was already attached. One couple had obviously read too many stories and was wandering around in strappy leather gear – fetish stuff. Those who are truly part of the scene would never advertise themselves like that! I finished sipping my drink, a vodka and tonic, and settled the glass back on the bar. No one in there was the right man for the job. As I reached for my coat, a firm hand settled on my waist.
“Stand up,” a deep male voice commanded.
My knees went weak at the sound. For me, a Master has to sound like a Master, even more than he has to look like one. I stood up straight, feeling the hand at my waist slide the mass of my hair away so that the man could see my shape properly. I breathed in deeply, trying to separate his scent from the thousand other odors in the room. I caught a whiff of musk and whisky, a deeply smoky, sexy smell. Mark three: touch, sound, and scent. This man was feeling better all the time. But I didn’t dare get my hopes up; they’d been raised and dashed too often before.
“Turn around. And keep your eyes on the floor.”
I did as I was told, my hair swishing back into place as the hand came to rest just below my breast. It was large and square, clean with long fingers and short nails. I imagined those fingers curling up inside of me, that voice telling me to cum. I started to get wet. And let me tell you, when you’re wearing a short skirt and nothing underneath, it quickly becomes obvious when you’re aroused.
“Good girl,” he soothed. “You can look up now.”
I raised my head slowly and looked him in the eye. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, but I had no idea how I’d missed him. Without breaking eye contact, he reached down and touched the top of my inner thigh, seeming pleased at the slick cream he found there. Taking my coat, he slung it about my shoulders and led me out into the night.
We walked for a short time before coming to a stop outside one of the big townhouses in Holborn. As yet, I had not said a word, only those three short sentences in the bar had passed between us. I should have been afraid, but instead my nipples were like bullets beneath the clamps, and I was wetter than I had ever been in my life.
Once inside the house, he told me to strip and go into the room on my right. The library, for such it was, seemed to have come from another era. I waited in the middle of the room for my instructions.
“Bend over the back of the chair,” he told me, removing something from the drawer of a desk.
I obeyed with alacrity, almost ashamed that my arse was white and unmarked. I hadn’t been paddled for months, so I knew it would hurt, but when the first crack sounded and I felt the sting, I gasped. Five more powerful blows followed the first, and I knew that my cheeks would be fire-red. I also knew that just because I’d taken six of the best, it didn’t mean I could move. I heard him murmur behind me, apparently amused by the fact that I was leaving a creamy mark on the back of his expensive leather chair. He slid one of those long fingers inside me to stop the flow, forcing a moan from my throat and yet more moisture from my already sopping-wet cunt. By leaning forwards a little further, I could put pressure on my swollen clit. I was desperate to cum.
“Oh no, not until I say so,” he laughed, withdrawing his finger and coming around to the front of the chair. “Here,” and he gave me his wet finger to suck on.
I could taste my own juices and licked at them avidly, my eyes fixed on his fly as I did so. Working my body onto the floor in front of him, I nuzzled into his crotch and tugged at the buttons concealing him from me. I risked one glance up into his face and saw an indulgent smile before carefully removing my prize from its hiding place. Slowly, I trailed my tongue up from the base of his cock to the silky tip, already beaded with precum. Sucking slowly, I drew as much cock as I could into my mouth, relaxing my throat to take more. He groaned and pulled my head away in half a minute, pushing me down to the glossy wooden floor as he did so.
“That was naughty.”
The word bought a fresh gush of juice to the surface, and I slid my legs wide apart, tempting him with the sight and smell of my body. I knew I was misbehaving, but I had to test him. I had to see if this man was Master, or just a man who liked to play. A rumbling laugh and instructions to roll onto my knees gave me my answer. A player would have simply taken me; he wanted to show me who had control. I arched my back, pushing my bottom up into the strokes of his hand. The regular swat of his hard palm was like a metronome, unrelenting and unvarying. By the time he was satisfied with his work, I knew my cheeks were red and swollen, and it was all I could do to keep from begging him to fuck me. One hand slid round to my nipples, tugging at the chain linking them before sliding down to my belly, then lower, checking that I was still wet. I was almost surprised that his fingers weren’t burnt by the furnace heat I was giving off. With two fingers, he parted my swollen, soaking lips. Then, at last, I felt the tip of his erection butting up against me and thrusting inside.
“Now,” he said.
It was all I needed: I came, almost collapsing onto the floor as I did so.
He took me upstairs as soon as I had recovered, his still-hard cock tucked back into his trousers. I was allowed to suck him properly in the big bed, taking his cum down into the back of my throat before he buckled a collar around my slender throat. I had a new Master.
What did it matter that I didn’t know his name?
