*I did not write this a friend of mine wrote it about when we may meet for the first time, I have full permission to post here, hope you enjoy*
I've travelled to reach you - hours by train, and then by taxi. I'm nervous: there are butterflies in my stomach that make me feel like hiccuping... but nothing happens when I try. It's that same sort of nervous energy you have going on a first date- what's he like in real life? Will he like me? Will he think I'm pretty? Funny? Will he want to see me again? and now, the added pressures. Will he think me beautiful? Irresistible? Will I make him hard? Will my obedience be enough? Will I be able to do it? What will it be like?
I arrive anyway, with these thoughts whizzing in my brain. My fists clench and unclench as I come up your drive way, check the number again and again, for it would be dreadful to turn up to the wrong house in a strange city.
I almost chicken out.
A light comes on on the landing upstairs. You know I'm there. I close my eyes and press the doorbell. Fate sealed.
Well... I thought it was.
Nothing happens. I long to ring again, but you'd said only once, that you'd open the door when you were ready.
What seems like hours go by: my nerves are building, anticipation cementing them like building blocks in my belly.
Then at last. Footsteps.
I stand back.
You open the door in one sweeping gesture. The light lights you from behind and you smile at me and say, "Lily, come on in."
You step back from the door and allow me to enter. I smile and step over the threshold. The door closes behind me.
"Turn." Your voice is low, soft, but there is force behind your word. I turn back to you. You lean against the door.
"Bag down." I drop it. For one, long moment, we observe one another. Smiles begin to crack both of our expressions and at once my nerves begin to settle.
You show me round - you know I'm nervous, that this is the first I've ever done, and your grace makes my heart sing. But after a tour, refreshments, a few laughs as we get to know our vanilla selves, we return to the living room.
Imperceptibly, the atmosphere changes. I cast my eyes down, my body tensing into the 'attention' pose as you take a seat.
For a moment, you leave me to squirm before you quietly say,
"Jumper."
I know this. I know I am to take it off, to hand it to you, to return to my position, but the order still makes me jump.
I comply and a blush steals across my cheek.
"Boots." "T-shirt." "Skirt." "Tights."
The commands follow one after the other until I am left stood in my matching black lace underwear.
"Inspection." A new command, but I shift into the pose, lacing my hands behind my head and spreading my legs. I lower my eyes.
You get up, move to me. Slowly, you move behind me. I can feel your eyes on me. They bore into my skin, my soul, and my blush deepens.
You run a hand over my back, my shoulder blades, trace the curve of my spine down to my clothed bottom. You don't touch there though, and I sigh in disappointment as you kneel and run your hands over my calves instead.
Then you pick up my feet, examining the soles, running your hands over my toes, pressing and squeezing as you feel my body, make your ownership known.
You repeat your tracing on my front, tracing a finger through the valley of my breasts and down over my stomach. You tilt my head this way and that, pinch my cheeks, bid me stick out my tongue, and you hook your finger in my mouth to see my teeth.
"Bra." My hands are like lightening on the clasp and I hand it to you immediately. You're not interested in it though, and ditch it. Instead, you cup each breast in your hands, slowly squeezing the titmeat. You begin to grope them more earnestly. My cunt's moistening more and more with every command, with every touch, but now, here and now, I can feel the pulsing in my clit.
Your pinching fingers at my nipples make me groan and moan, and you pinch harder before admonishing, "quiet, whore."
I try to remain quiet, I truly do, but your pinching, mauling action has me fidgeting as my cunt grows wetter and wetter. At last, you take your hands away and laugh.
"You really are a little whore, aren't you, Lily?"
I nod.
"Say it," you insist.
"I'm a needy little whore," I parrot
"Sir."
"Sir," I mimic quickly.
Your hands slap both breasts in quick succession, once, twice, three times. The smacks seem loud to me, and the dull thud is instant.
"Don't forget my title again, whore." you say.
"Yes Sir. Thank you for the correction, Sir," I murmur.
You've moved on though, and you smack my thighs gently to make me widen my stand. Your hands are on my cunt, rubbing the black material over my lips. Again you laugh.
"You're drenched, cunt," you chuckle. "Disgustingly slimy." But you don't seem disgusted really. My cheeks burn though.
"Sorry, Sir," I mutter.
"It's okay, cunt," you say. "You see, whores like you can't help it. You love it when Men like me look at your body. Your sloppy cunt gets excited when it thinks its going to be able to serve a Man."
"Yes Sir."
"You see, it's nature, cunt. Your filthy hole is getting itself nice and wet for me to insert my cock. That's what you want, don't you, cunt?"
"Yes Sir."
"Well, that's a prize to be earned, whore." You slap my pussy over the damp underwear. My legs flinch together, so you pinch my nipple.
"Don't move again, whore."
"Yes Sir," I squeak.
"Knickers off now, girl."
I hasten to comply.
I'm naked now. My cheeks burn as I spread my legs.
"Doll," you snap, and I lie on the floor, drawing my legs up.
You kneel next to me, and bend down to my cunt.
Your fingers run non too gently over my mound first, then over labia lips. You pinch and pull at them, testing elasticity, my pain tolerance. I try not to make a sound.
"Good girl," you say as you put your fingers in my mouth for me to clean. I lick them as well as I can.
You get your phone then and I tense, frozen in fear at the thought of you taking a photo of me. But you don't. Instead the torch clicks on, and you begin to pull my labia apart.
"Make yourself useful, girl. Hold yourself spread."
I do as you ask, displaying my pulsing, drenched, needy hole, my aroused clit, everything to you.
You lean in, with the torch at first. I can feel your breath on my cunt.
And then you touch.
To be continued |
