A Slave to Her Mistress
by Couture
email: couture_writes@hotmail.com
Please do not read if under 18 years of age or
offended by sexually explicit and situations.
(c) 2002 Couture
***********
You're only sitting here because your computer at home
is broken. Yes, the 400 Mhz has surfed it's last
erotic site and taken with it every last
you archived to a folder.
"Thank God for libraries," you think, glancing around
quickly to make sure no one is looking, before pulling
up the latest Couture story. No, they aren't the best
written out there, but they never fail to make
you wet.
Yes, there's a new one! You bring up MSN, and switch
your active window back to the story; just in case you
need to clear the screen in a hurry.
As you read the story, your thighs squeeze together,
wringing moisture from the soaking sponge that is your
cunt. Your hand strays to your breasts, not for
pleasure, but just to make sure your nipples aren't
advertising your secret thoughts like two
beacons flashing from your chest.
You continue to read. Your thighs begin their now
familiar rhythmic motion: Squeeze, open, close-
squeeze, open, close. Your thoughts are interrupted
by the aggravating squeaking of a chair. Blushing,
you realize it's your chair.
The is about two dominated by two
older women in a public restroom. The makes you
particularly hot, because in just a few minutes, you
will be the one doing something naughty in the library
restroom.
You squeeze your thighs together again, priming the
pump as it were. You feel your open as your
thick labia pull apart. It's hungry, you realize;
smacking its lips in anticipation of being fed. At
home it would get to feast on a trusty vibrator as you
indulged your fantasies, but today it would have to
settle for your fingers.
Your lips pull apart again. You swear you could hear
it smack this time.
'Stop that,' you think, as you look down at your
crotch. 'Isn't it enough that you make me read these
horrible stories? Why can't you like normal .
. .like romances? No, instead you make me come down
here to the library and risk everything for you. Even
making me get my husband to take us here.'
You realize your cares not one wit for your
patronizing speech. She's as hot as she's going to
get and if you are going to keep from embarrassing
yourself, you better go to the restroom and satisfy
her hunger.
After triple checking to make sure Internet Explorer
is closed and there is no incriminating evidence left
on the computer, you get up and head to the restroom.
Once there, you check to make sure you are alone and
secure yourself in the last stall. You decide to
forgo the tissue on the lid and sit down unprotected
after every other woman that has been there before.
You ruck your skirt up, pull down your panties, spread
your legs lewdly and stick a finger in your needy
cunt, in one smooth motion.
"There, are you happy?" you ask her.
She isn't. Your hand deposits the in your
purse, but returns with the pantyliner.
"No," you beg. "Not that."
Your hand moves of its own volition, overruled by your
cunt. The liner soon finds its way to your nose. You
try to hold your breath, but eventually you are forced
to inhale the musky scent her arousal.
Your fingers speed, fucking her, faster and faster.
It's loud, and you wish you could quiet them - quite
her.
'This isn't me,' you think. 'I'm a housewife, not the
sort of slut that does this. That makes these sorts
of squishing and smacking noises.'
Your fingers move to your clit and circle the tiny
pearl with deft strokes born of years of practice.
'Please hurry,' you beg her, but she's still not
satisfied. She needs more. You hand begins to force
the pantyliner in your mouth.
'No, please,' you beg silently, turning your head to
the side. 'Don't make me do that. Not here. Not in
public.'
The orgasm you so desperately crave dances out of your
grasp, leaving you there, gasping, sweating, and
hanging by a thread.
'Oh, that's so mean, you horrible cunt.'
Somehow your lips part just far enough for a finger to
push part of the liner into your mouth. You give up
and suck the remnants of the juices from it.
'See, I've done it. You made me taste you. You made
me suck you. Please-please-please, just let me cum.'
You spy your discarded lying balled up in your
purse. You quickly look away, hoping she missed them.
She didn't. That wicked little never misses
anything.
Leaving the pad in your mouth, you hand moves
down and picks up the panties.
'No, please' you beg. 'Someone could come in at any
moment. My husband's coming back to pick me up and I
can't afford to smell like some back alley slut. Oh,
please, haven't you humiliated me enough.'
You hand pulls the over your head, and then
proceeds to smear the soiled wet crotch over your
face, rubbing her scent all over you, marking you,
before settling the crotch over your nose.
'Oh, you've done it now. You've broken me. Turned me
into your slut again. You've made a whore out of me.
Are you happy?'
You inhale the crotch of the panties, as you suck on
her soaked liner. Hands quickly unbutton your
blouse, pulling your out of their cups.
Fingers tweak hardened nipples, not lovingly, but
hard. Showing you she owns you. Your legs pull up
and spread, causing the plumbing on the commode to jam
uncomfortably into your back, but that doesn't
care about your back. She only wants to make you
suffer.
She has you like she wants you now. Stripped, spread,
wearing her marks and getting fucked like the pussy-
slut you are.
You can feel your climax building quickly. It won't
be long now.
You pull the leg of the over your eye and
then reach down to the bottom of your large pocket
book.
'Please,' you beg. 'Don't make me see it. We both
know you own me, isn't that enough?'
You close your eyes tight. You won't look this time.
You don't need it. Just once, you will just and
everything will be okay. The orgasm doesn't come and
neither do you.
'Just one little look. A quick peek,' you resign
yourself. You open your eyes and look at the
of a thirty-year-old housewife and of two,
naked, but for a pair of panties, lying on the kitchen
floor, her hand bunched up in her crotch. It's
obvious she's holding the with her free hand.
Though the view is distorted from the angle, the look
in the woman's eyes is haunted and almost exhausted,
yet at the same time relieved. There is a large wet
stain on the crotch of the and a puddle around
her middle.
You know what the puddle is from, because the woman is
you.
Seeing yourself like that in the picture; put there
and displayed in such a fashion of lewd depravity, a
slave to your Mistress. It is enough to take you
over the top. Your orgasm bursts forth from deep
inside your loins like molten fire. Hips buck, heels
scratch the surface of the steel wall surrounding you,
and fingers stoke the fire that burns inside your
womb. Your eyes never leave the Polaroid.
After you come down from your orgasm, you take a deep
breath and give a shivering sigh of relief.
It is almost over, but not quite. You are careful to
remain exactly as you are. It is difficult, because,
now the chrome plumbing fixture digging into your back
actually hurts and there is no pleasure to deaden the
pain. You reach into your purse and extract the
camera. Steeling yourself, you close your eyes and
imagine the depravity, the pleasure, and how deeply
you have been enslaved. You open your eyes and push
the button on the camera.
There is a flash and then the familiar ka-zzzzzttttt,
as it spits out a square of white paper. As always,
you refuse to look at it, and put it in your purse.
Looking will come later.
Now comes the hard part. The part when reality seeps
back in. Ashamed, you put yourself back in order.
Panties off head and into purse, panty-liner discarded
into the porcelain bowl located conveniently between
your legs, sex and fingers dried with tissue.
'God, look what you've done to me,' you think as you
dry your fingers and still very aroused sex with
tissues.
You push your tender back into the cups of
your bra, button your blouse, and then stand up to
smooth down your wrinkled skirt. You fold up the
camera and hide it and the in the bottom of
your purse.
With heels clacking on the hard tile floor, you make
your way to the sink. Once there, you cup your hands
under the running water and plunge your face in. You
wash your face and hands, trying to get her scent off
of you. Even after, you can still smell her - the
scent of her - her mark.
Jesus, you can feel it in your bones. She wants you
to do it again, but this time right here in front of
the mirror. Right here for anyone to see if they
should come in.
Looking down at your still tingling crotch, you think,
'Christ, haven't you done enough to me? Charles will
be here at any moment and anyone- anyone could come in
and catch me. I can't - I won't - I refuse to do it.'
Hurrying to get out before it is too late; you open
your purse and powder your face, but the tingling in
your sex won't go away.
'Please,' you beg. 'I'll get a new computer next
week. Just wait until then and we can do anything you
want. It's too risky here.'
You remove the top from your lipstick and stare at the
tip. "I can't," you whisper. "You're going to get me
in trouble."
Grabbing the hem of your skirt, you quickly raise it,
exposing your sex. Lower lips - her lips - are
painted with lipstick, the color of arousal, the
color of sex. You lower your skirt, smooth it down
and paint the upper lips at your leisure.
After placing the tube of lipstick in your purse, you
triple-check everything, making sure that any
incriminating evidence is safely down at the bottom of
your purse and it is secured before leaving the
restroom.
Outside among the books, everything is normal. A
young pushes a cart of books and stops to place
one on the shelf. She glances at you, and you quickly
do a mental check, praying that you didn't leave any
outward signs of what you were doing just minutes
earlier.
The fresh air dries the wetness from your as you
walk to the bookshelf and pick up a romance that you
will never read. You see a vagrant nodding off at the
table in the aisle and you walk the long way around so
you can avoid him, making your way to the front
counter. Once there, the librarian scans the book,
your library card and tells you to have them back in
two weeks.
You walk outside and wait for your husband by the
front door like a good housewife, lick your lips and
taste the flavor of your mistress.
The End
***********
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