I wake up late, and he has gone.

Must not have wanted to awaken me. I pout. He could have at least spilled his come in my mouth so I’d have it to console me when I woke up.

He doesn’t like to do that, though. He says it’s no fun for him when I’m not awake and aware and wanting and enjoying what he does to me, but if that’s the case, why didn’t he just wake me up and fuck me hard before he left for work? Master can be so silly sometimes!

I glance at the clock and see that it’s half-past nine. That is pretty late; I guess it’s time to get started on the daily routine. I roll over to the center of the bed, where we made love last night. In the space between the pillows, I can smell his sweat and mine, commingled. It’s getting me hot, and I know that I’m supposed to get started on the day, but I also know that my fuckhole is meant for coming, so I take my pleasure with gentle pressure of my clit on the bed. I think about last night, and the fact that my crotch is rubbing against the same spot where we climaxed together last night makes my nipples sparkle with excitement. My face is buried in the mattress, and I slide my palms onto my nipples, and the heat of them there is enough to make me come on the next thrust of my pelvis.

Whew! That felt goooood. “Thank you, Master,” I say under my breath. I head for the shower, now, smiling.

The shower is hot and relaxing as it strikes my skin with hissing droplets, and I sigh as my eyes close in contentment. There’s a lot of housework to do today, and I’d like to stay sheltered here for as long as it’s feasible. The soap smell is pungent, and it helps me to shake my drowsiness. I shampoo my hair, then touch up my legs—my hair there grows very slowly, but I don’t want to take any chances. Prickly legs aren’t sexy. Then it’s on to my pubic hair, which is shaved except for a small strip right above my pussy. I prefer to be completely clean-shaven for him, but Master says a completely bare cunt makes him think of twelve year-olds, and he’s not a pedophile. Sigh. He can be so picky! And it feels like such a nice tickle when his beard touches me there!

All this thought of tickles is exciting, but I try to restrain myself so I can finish washing. I use a spray bottle to clean out all my parts; I want Master to use all of my holes, but he’s all about hygiene. A clean slut is a good slut, he always says, and always makes for a better Dirty Slut. The ass-cleaning, I will admit, is just stimulating enough to turn me on, and I spend a lot of time “cleaning”. Gotta use two hands, though, as all this fun is making my pussy greedy again, and I need to speak Master’s name some more times so I can.... uhhhhhhh...

... come!

Well, I feel much cleaner, now. Shut off the faucet and sink myself into one of those navy blue full-body towels he bought for me. He’s so considerate, and the puffy terrycloth is soooo comfy. My nipples appreciate it. I want to play with them and come again, but I do have lots of errands to get to, so I successfully resist the temptation. It’s been hard, learning to control my urges, but Master has been very patient with me. I love him so much.

I head for the kitchen to fix myself a little something. Toast, lightly buttered, and maybe a bowl of cereal. Trix (are for kids!) are my guilty pleasure, but I know they’re not really very healthy for me, so I push them out of the way and grab some granola instead.

In the breakfast nook is a note from my Master:

Dearest Nikki,

I’m sorry you couldn’t take me in your mouth this morning, but I have an early meeting and I woke up a tad late, and I didn’t have the time to give it to you properly.

Silly Master! I think. Just your cock on my tongue is “proper” enough for me. There’s more to read, though.

I’m having Stu over for drinks tonight after work, so you’ll need to have the house tidied and some snacks for him. Nothing fancy, but make sure it’s tasty. I’m sure you will think of something.

I have some ideas, but it means I will need to go grocery shopping this afternoon.

After your appointment with Dr. Beston, I’d like you to go over and see Penny. She’s been lonely since Ted left her, and I hate for her to be so sad all of the time. Bring her some happiness, okay?

My pleasure. Penny is a very close friend of ours who just went through a particularly nasty divorce. I will help her feel better. My pussy moistens in anticipation.

I see from the paper that Fredericks is having a sale today, so you might want to check it out. We’ve been a bit rough on some of your undies, lately, and you could use some replacements. Remember, classy, not trashy.

Darn it. That’s no fun. My fingers are in my slit right now, one brushing my clitoris, the other pushing inside my hole rhythmically, thinking of what I will buy. He ripped my silk thong in half last week when he fucked me in the alley behind the club, so maybe I should buy a replacement.

I’d like to see you in black tonight, my dear. Don’t disappoint me.

Black, I think. I know just the thing. Now I’m circling my hot little pearl with one finger, and it feels sooooo good.

You may come for me now, fuckwhore.

Your Loving Master

Mmmmm.... As soon as I read “fuckwhore”, I am coming into my hands, making the kitchen chair slippery with my moisture. When I open my eyes again, I notice that there’s a postscript:

P.S. Well, maybe a little trashy. xoxo, Me.

Awwww... I smile. He really loves me, and lets me know in all kinds of considerate little ways.

* * *

After licking the chair clean (and almost getting distracted enough to fuck myself again), I head back to the bedroom to get dressed for the day.

I love my walk-in closet. Before Master, I’d never lived in such luxury, but he makes a very good living and some of our storage spaces are bigger than the actual rooms in my old life. The closet in our bedroom is no exception. It houses all of my fancy clothes, and my slutty clothes, and my lingerie takes up at least a quarter of the space. I select a comfortable white satiny bra and a matching six-strap garter-belt. Panties or not is a tricky question, today, as Master has left me no specific instructions. I am feeling particularly horny, though, and it just wouldn’t do to ruin my nice expensive dress with fuckjuice stains, so I get something white and minimal but which will at least hold in my wetness until I can reach a suitable spot to take care of it.

The hosiery armoire is where I head next. As always, I sigh at the light smell of nylon when I open it. It makes me think of Master, and how much he loves my legs, and how much he loves me to wear stockings. I select the Gio full-fashioned tan ones I bought in Paris last year for his birthday, and rub them briefly against my cheek as I sigh in memory. The cushy bench is going to need cleaning again, I think as I sit down on it. Maybe I’d better put on the panties first.

When the back of the thong is riding properly up my ass, I wrap the garter-belt around my waist and then start on the stockings, dampening the panties (not for the last time today, assuredly) as I do so. I roll the stockings over my toes and heel, where they fit snugly and comfortably, and then slowly, luxuriantly, as if I can feel His eyes on me, draw the thin material up my calves to the knee. A quick check to make sure the seam is straight, then I round the shapely bend and proceed up my smooth thighs.

I am wet as a sponge from this.

I’ve always enjoyed fancy lingerie, and even wore stockings sometimes, before I met Master. But never did I get so horny from wearing them until he told me how sexy they were.

“I find stockings fascinating,” he’d said. “The way they accent a woman’s leg, the curves of the thigh where they meet the welt of the hose... it’s just sensual and sexy in an amazing way. I could never get tired of them—they intrigue me in the same way that women’s legs, in general, have intrigued me for years: I never stop trying to peer up skirts to see the whole expanse of thigh. Doesn’t matter if it’s a mysterious stranger or it’s my own personal whore and I know exactly what’s under there: I still look. Stockings are the same way, for me. I’ll still be intrigued, still look, no matter how ‘routine’ they become.”

He told me this while my nylon-encased legs were wrapped around his neck, though I don’t know how he remained coherent enough to describe all this while fucking my slut-cunt. I know I wasn’t. I came, then, and the words were burned into my brain.

Since then, I have always gotten hot even from merely contemplating dressing my legs for his gaze. I can’t go to lingerie shops to buy my hose; I got kicked out of the local boutique when the old bat who runs the store figured out I was masturbating in the dressing room while trying her wares on. She had no right to complain, as I had planned on purchasing every single pair I ran over my nether lips and sucked clean, but for some reason she decided I was not the kind of customer she wanted to serve. So I buy online, and when I surf the web for hosiery I’m touching my pussy with my other hand. Contemplating my Master watching me put them on, looking at me with that hungry stare that gives me a tickle in all the right places. Imagining crossing and uncrossing my legs slowly for him, shifting them across one another, pressing my thighs together in need while I stare into his eyes, knowing that he’s nearly mad with desire... For me...

Now I’m standing with my back to the mirror, looking over my shoulder as I fasten the back strap near the keyhole loop at the top of the welt. The seam is straight and, this small job done, I watch myself as my wrist crosses my panty line and my finger enters my hungry, slick hole once more. These panties are too brief to fit my whole hand, and my outer fingers are splayed lewdly out the sides in order to give me better access with the two fingers that are inside. I can see my ass cheeks spread around the fabric, and it’s so hot to look into my wet drippy snatch through the part of my thighs. I’m rubbing a little rough, now, intensely, as I look at the play of the nylon, damp with sweat, now, up my leg from heel to thigh, the fully-fashioned seams like arrows pointing to where I feel the best. I look damn sexy and I know it, and that gets me over the edge of building fire and straight into another orgasmic juicing. My knees go weak, and I can’t see my ass and legs anymore because my eyes are closed and my animal grunts shoot forth from between my teeth.

I lean against the bench, now, panting, but satiated enough to be able to finish attaching the rest of the garter straps to the hose without suffering another loss of control at how sexy I feel.

Master wants me to be a sexual being at all times. Since his vision (and the vision of all right-thinking males, of course) of sexual includes stockings, I want to wear them all the time because I want to be perceived as sexual by him (by others, too, generally, but he is most important to me) at all times.

Now, I say “all times”, but there can be practical reasons for wearing shorts, or pantyhose, or even going naked. I recognize that, but I’d like to think of those as the exception rather than the rule. Master likes it when I dress to the nines, but even when I’m only dressed for a shopping trip, or dinner at home, I like to dress at least “to the fives”. Which to me means elegant hosiery every day. Master has expressed his approval of this attitude in his little slut, and that’s good enough for me.

* * *

“Hi, Mrs. Chambers,” says Bethany, Dr. Beston’s perky receptionist, as I come in the door and make for the lounger and a copy of Cosmo.

“Hello, Bethany,” I reply. She is a pretty, though not beautiful, girl, and her smile is one of God’s precious gifts. “Is Elaine’s schedule running on time today, or will I have to wait a while?” Because the feeling of the taut nylons sliding up and down my legs as I walked from the car has made me long for a session in the little girls’ room. And the fact that Bethany is looking at my calves in an inquisitive fashion is not helping.

“No,” she replies, “Dr. Beston will be ready for you any second now.” Her eyes are still not on my face, and I reward her by crossing my legs and pretending not to notice the hiking of my skirt and its blatant revelation of what’s underneath.

I almost hope Elaine is late for the appointment, and start to squeeze my thighs together firmly. This stimulates my clit in a delightful way, and I’ve been known to come from just this action alone. My ankle is moving in little circles, now, as my leg bounces in reaction to my more fervent motions, and I’m looking directly at Bethany’s face as I—

The door opens, startling both the receptionist and I from our... waiting... and Elaine, dressed smartly in a business suit, steps out to greet me. I’m red-faced, and her expression makes me wonder if she somehow knows what I was doing as I stand up and take her hand. “Nikki, it’s so good to see you,” she says, with a mild glance up and down my body, checking out my dress. “It’s been so long.”

“Hi, Elaine,” I reply as I stand up. My panties are soaked to the point where I may be dripping down my thigh. “Are you ready for me, now?”

“Am I ever!” she exclaims, with a smile on her face. “You must tell me how you’ve been.”

I accept her arm as she escorts me into the back hall, and glance back to notice that Bethany is gone. Off to the ladies’ room, I hope. Wish I could join her, there. I’m still fucking horny.

We enter her office, which is comfortably dim, and Elaine offers me a glass of water as I lay back on the couch. When I have it in my hand, she goes back around her desk and sits down.

We chat a bit about life, and Master, and I tell her about last month’s dinner party and how stressful it was. She wonders aloud how I dealt with the stress, and I confess happily that I fucked my way into relaxation. She laughs, at this, and says, “Good! A healthy sex life solves most problems. I wish more patients would realize that, as you have, darling.” A pause, then, as she contemplates something. “Nikki, shall we begin?”

I am a bit awkward about this, as I am still not fully trusting about people playing with my mind. But I know it’s for the best, this reinforcement of who I am, so I nod, if somewhat uncertainly. Her eyes light up, or do I just imagine that?

“Nikki, you will go very deep for me, now,” she says, and the darkness clouds my mind as my eyelids slam shut.

* * *

I awake feeling refreshed and happy. I look over toward her desk, and see that Elaine is now leaning back on the desktop with both hands somewhat wearily, as she observes me. I don’t blame her—my sessions last for a couple hours, and I’m sure she gets sick of sitting for that long. I lift my head up from the couch, and realize that I should have dried my hair better this morning. The leather of the couch is damp, as are my ears. Come to think of it, I thought I’d washed up after smearing cunt on my face this morning, but I realize now that I must have forgotten, because my face smells of woman, though the application of my makeup has apparently given it a somewhat not-me aroma. It would ordinarily make me extremely hot and wet to know that my cheeks and chin smell like a two-dollar-whore, but I realize with a start that I’m already dripping through my skirt and onto the couch.

I am embarrassed, and look to Elaine to tell her so, to apologize, but she reminds me of what she’s said before: being under hypnosis can be arousing to some women, and she likes to just let it run its course. “Do you need to masturbate, dear?”

“I... I think so, Doctor.”

“Well, don’t hold yourself back on my account, Nikki. I’m a doctor. I’ve seen it all before.”

And that’s all the permission I need, really. I hike up the skirt and (I thought for sure I was wearing panties!) start to apply my manicured fingers to their task. I’ve got two fingers of one hand doing an imitation fucking motion into my cunt, and the other hand is caressing my clit in a slow circular motion. I turn my head away from the ceiling, slightly self-conscious at doing this in front of a trained psychiatrist, but she’s just watching professionally, like she might be taking notes. Somehow, this gets me going even more, and my high heels are digging into the couch (oops) as I raise my legs for traction and begin pushing back against my fingers. I tweak my clit to the side once, twice, and then I am jamming my whole mound up into the air, trying to get my fingers deeper, and looking at Elaine the whole time I am coming.

My sighs are loud, and I feel sure that Bethany can hear them (good!), and when they’ve died down, I see that Elaine’s nipples are hard through her blouse and her eyes are sort of glazed over. After clearing her throat, she says, “Very good, Nikki. I can see that you’re getting much less inhibited. Our session is pretty much over now, but first... Let’s discuss the matter of payment.”

With that phrase, I’m across the room and on my knees in front of her, jerking her tight skirt up to get at her snatch. I push the sopping-yet-oddly-familiar white thong out of the way and lap at her, spilling not a drop, as she wraps my hair in her fist and moves my head in the way she likes. “Oh you fucking slut,” she moans, and I hope she’ll call me by that name, the favorite of all my names, several more times. I could come from just that alone, but since she’s lost any semblance of human speech right now, my hands are rubbing my mound through my skirt in order to relieve the needy fuckhole lurking beneath the fabric. I don’t come, can’t come, until her pussy is satiated, so I dig deeper into her with my chin while at the same time nibbling at her clitoris with just my lips, and alternately tasting its underside with my tongue. Her breath catches, and I hear her squeal, and I can shudder in my climax as she attains hers and washes my mouth with her delicious flavor.

“Mmmmmm...” she hums as I look up at her glowing face, her bush an obscene moustache on my lips. She cradles my head in her hands, now, the urgency which made her pull my hair all relaxed away, her eyes filled with tears of exertion and joy. “Baby, you are one wonderful cuntlicker.”

I’m thrilled by the praise, as I am thrilled when Master compliments me, and I ask if she would like more “payment”.

She sighs, but indicates she’s already late for her next appointment. She shakes her head as if to free it from some annoying thought, and then strokes my hair and says, “Black as night, Nikki.” And I’m gone again.

* * *

There was a time, years ago, when I inquired aloud what in the world I’d do if I hadn’t found Master, if I hadn’t been his slave-slut. He looked a bit uncomfortable then, and asked if I really wanted to know. “No,” I replied, at the look on his face, which may have been guilt. “No.”

But the damage had already been done. My Master looked away for a while, struggling with something, and then he turned back to me. “Nikki, my darling, I love you so much. Know that what I do, what I have always done, has been for you. Do you understand this?”

I nodded meekly. Terrified.

“Come here, then.” I complied. “Look at me.” And then he spoke words I didn’t catch then and hope I never hear again.

My world changed. And I hated it.

First of all, I resented him. Resented making me feel this way. Empty.

But I resented much more. And I remembered everything.

For the past six years, he had used me like a personal toy, like a goddamned thing, in the most demeaning of ways. Dressed like a hooker, in those short, tight outfits he liked so much, showing myself casually to all the world like a shameless bimbo. Not a day going by without my fingers between my thighs, without my own filthy juices in my own mouth. Saying the most unnaturally worshipful things about him, about his cock, about what I wanted to do for him and to him. Fucking any woman for him, sometimes just because he wanted it—not because I wanted her, particularly, then or ever! Feeling no jealousy whatsoever when he took these women on our bed because my brain was so fucked-up on lust for her tongue and desire to please him.

I remembered it all.

The first day, I cried. For hours I cried. He loved me, I knew he did; even now, I could see the guilt on his face when he came to me to try and kiss my tears away, and the love in his eyes. Knowing what he’d done with me, to me, these long years... it was so wrong, so warped.

But still, impossibly, I loved him, too. It hurt me that he was hurting, even though I knew he deserved it for treating me the way he had. For years.

The next couple of days were horrible. I didn’t know how to react to him. Calling him anything other than “Master” felt funny on my lips, but it wasn’t how I felt right now. He was just a guy I loved and was hurt by and sort of angry with.

But the anger faded. To be replaced by loneliness; he still had to go to work every day, and I still stayed home to maintain the house and to run errands. I tried to watch television to keep my mind off the rest of my life, but all I ended up with was eight pounds of ice cream-induced extra body fat and a couple of new Books of the Month from Oprah. And those didn’t help.

My libido wasn’t on overdrive like it was before, but I still wanted to make love now and again, even sometimes when he wasn’t around. I could tell he felt uncomfortable making a move on me with the current questionable status of our relationship, though, so I went on, unsatisfied. On the fifth day, in desperation, I put on a pair of the stockings and a garter-belt, but I felt cheap and tawdry while I put them on, and the vision of myself in the mirror gave me no thrill. It felt like I was wearing a costume. A sex uniform. I took them off and cast them into the furthest corner of the closet, and burst into tears lying across the bed.

He got home that night and was cordial (oh, who am I kidding? he was as nice and sweet as a man could be), and I fed him a hearty meal and told him about my day. He responded in kind, and we rekindled some part of what we had lost. I took his hand, and led him to our bedroom, and kissed him deeply. He was tender, and loving, and right, and I came passionately, holding him tight. But when he was ready for more, my mood was gone. I self-analyzed, I questioned his motivations, I spent seconds-to-minutes in my head trying to determine if I’d done everything right. When he asked for oral stimulation I tried to provide it, I really did, but he knew I wasn’t really into it, and I gagged on him when he pressed too far into my throat. He patted me on the cheek and told me it was alright, that I could just go to sleep, that he would be up a bit later to watch some television.

But I knew the truth: he was going to stay up and masturbate himself because I had failed him.

Dammit, I didn’t want to disappoint him! This was killing me. I wanted to be his lover, nothing held back, and giving him all I could give. Giving him all I should give. Being what he wanted me to be.

On the seventh day, I came to him as he watched a ball game on TV. “Yes, sweetheart?” he inquired as I sat down next to him and looked pointedly in his direction. He turned off the TV set.

“I can’t live like this anymore.”

He looked very sad, almost heartbroken. “I... what are you saying?”

“This... this... thing we have together. It’s not working, not like this.”

He sighed. “What do you want to do, darling? What do you want?”

“I don’t know! I want you to love me again.”

“I’ve never stopped, darling. Everything for you has been out of love.”

“I know, I just... I’m not who I was last week!”

He looked thoughtful. “No, you’re certainly not.”

“And the sex... I can never want it that much. Not anymore.”

“No, I’d say probably not. You were never that sexual. Before.”

“What was I like, ‘before’?”

“You were a lot like this, actually. I’d come home to find you moping, desperate for human contact, and sad. It was... it was heart-rending. Because I didn’t know what to offer you, to make it better.”

“What changed?”

“You went to Dr. Beston, and she... well, I don’t want to get into the technical details, but she changed you.”

“Changed me how?”

“Using hypnosis.”

“No, I figured that part out. What I want to know is, what changes did she make?”

“Oh. She removed inhibitions, mostly; you have a lot of complexes about your body, and how it relates to your self-image, and to your desires. You always liked girls, for instance, but hadn’t acted on those feelings since you were a young teen, because you thought it was wrong. You felt like you needed to put on a front for everyone, to show how independent you were, but that didn’t let you admit how much you desperately wanted someone to take care of you. To make you feel safe.”

“And she told you all of this?”

“No, you did.”

“I did?”

“You were in trance at the time. It was a joint session, and I was the observer, and Elaine told you to tell me what you wanted, what you really wanted. And that was it.”

“To be taken care of? To feel safe? To be your little whore?”

He chuckled despite himself, then. “No, I’ll admit I wanted that last part for myself.” He got more serious. “You did want to feel much freer during sex, and for me to take charge in the bedroom. Elaine... extrapolated a lot from that. I think because she wanted you for herself, a bit, and she figured that was as good a way as any to get you. She’s not exactly, you know, ethical.”

“Were you sleeping with her?”

He darkened. “No. She is attractive, of course, and I considered it, briefly and carelessly as all men would, but I didn’t want her. I wanted you.”

“You wanted a me that didn’t exist.”

“I wanted the you that you wouldn’t let out.”

She was silent then. “So that’s it then. This is me.”

“This is you.” He took a sip of his water. “So the question is, what do you want to do about it? We can find another psychologist, and start thera—”

“No.” I was in tears right now, and knew what he was going to say. “No, that’s not what I want. Years of therapy until I’m good enough for you. Uh-uh. No way.”

“Then what?” he replied, exasperated. “Because I can’t be with you like this. And if you won’t change...”

“Who said I won’t change?”

“But you said...”

“I said no therapy.”

“And...?”

“You could change me back.”

He was silent, perhaps stunned. This was not the direction he had thought the conversation was going. Not the way I’d thought it was going to go, either, truth be told, but I must have known deep down what this was going to come down to.

“What?”

“I don’t want to wait years and years to feel right, I want to feel right again. Now. And you can help me do it. You can, can’t you? If not, that bitch Elaine can, I’m sure of it.”

“No, I can do it,” he replied, concerned. “I just don’t know if it’s a good idea. You seem like you feel betrayed by what we did—what I did to you last time. And I don’t want you to feel that way, ever.”

“You can’t be hypnotized into doing something you don’t really want to do, deep down,” I said. “Master,” I added, with a smirk.

My smile lit his own, and I saw it spread to his eyes. “No, I suppose not. At its heart, that’s what has kept me going all of these years. Otherwise the guilt would have killed me, I think.”

I was silent for a moment, and I took his hand. “So how do we go about this? This change back, I mean.”

“It’s pretty simple, really; just a catch phrase you’ve been implanted with. But I want to be sure you want this.” He arched his eyebrow.

Now he was just being frustrating. “Didn’t I just tell you I wanted it?”

“I want to hear what it is that you want.”

“Come on!” I was half amused and half angry. Was he going to make me beg?

“That’s right,” he said, reading my mind. “You’re going to beg for it.”

“Okay. Please. I want you to change me back.”

“Into what?”

“Into the girl I was a week ago.”

“And who was that?”

“Your slut.”

“You weren’t just my slut. You were more than that.”

“I was... your cock-hungry fuckwhore.”

“Mmmm... that’s right, you were. So ask.”

“Please, make me—”

“Please, ‘Master’.”

I giggled, but returned to seriousness in an instant. “Please, Master, make me your cock-hungry fuckwhore again.”

“I’m not sure you really want it.”

“My cunt is dripping right now, let’s not waste this, okay?”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“Please,” I said, dropping to my knees, with agony in my voice, “Please, Master, make me into your cock-hungry fuckwhore. I’ve missed it so.” I pulled down his boxers, and freed his erect cock, and my hand stroked it up and down. I took it in my hand and looked up into his eyes, pleadingly.

He consented.

“Nicolette Ann, I own your pussy.”

And suddenly, a new day dawned, and the truth of his words played over my body like sunlight. “Again.”

“What? No, it should have worked the first time. Maybe I should call—”

“No, Master,” I emphasized. “It worked, oh, it worked wonderfully, gorgeously. But I want to hear you say it again, anyway.”

He brightened, and motioned my legs onto the couch with him. “Oh.” A laugh. “Nicolette Ann, I own your pussy.”

“Nikki, only, Nikki for you, Master. Say it once more, please, so I can be sure it’s true?”

“Heh. It is true, slut.” He parted my thighs and eased himself up between them. He gently removed my panties, with a near-reverence for what he revealed. “I can tell already.”

“Please tell your slut again. Pllllease...”

“Nikki, I own your fucking pussy. I own you and I will own you until your dying day.”

I was as sopping wet as any good little cockhungry fuckwhore could be. His mouth kissed the new me hello, then, the real me, the only good me, and I came thunderously just seconds after he began to lick me there. The wetness of my slut-cunt flowed onto his chin, but he did not relent after I stopped bucking. This, I could tell from the ravenous way he ate me out, would be one of those nights he would taste me for hours, disregarding my pleading for his cock, until he was satisfied he’d swallowed enough of me. I placed one leg on the floor, and slid the other up over the backrest of the couch, to give him better access.

To the pussy he owned once more. To the me he owned once more.

And would, now, forever and forever.

I screamed at the thought, and nearly drowned him in my excitement.

* * *

But that was long ago, and this is now. My pussy feels good, as it often does after my sessions with Elaine. Sometimes I wish she’d use me while I was under, and not merely for her payment afterwards. She’s a very hot woman, and I’d not mind being under her control for a while—the hypnotism would hardly be necessary.

I smile at Bethany as I walk out, and she leans her head in while I’m writing the check. I notice she’s inhaling, and know she must smell Dr. Beston’s come on my face. I had stopped in the restroom to fix my makeup, but I’d been too turned on by having her juices on me to wash myself thoroughly. (For some reason I’d thought I was missing my panties, too, but a quick check after I did my face had indicated that my white silkies were still there, if a bit more drenched for wear. I’d taken them off, then, and I will hang them in the car to dry in the afternoon sun.)

Bethany hands me my receipt, and with it a phone number. “Call me this weekend,” she says in a low voice. “I think you and I could go out, and have a really good time.”

I’m already damp, but my nipples harden quickly at the thought. Master would hardly object to her; she’s just his type, really—sweet and demure exterior, but with a hidden slut submerged beneath, I think. “Maybe,” I say, with a twinkle in my eye. “Or maybe we’ll just stay in.”

And I leave her with that as I head out the door.

* * *

I’m pulling into Penny’s driveway. The lawn needs mowing, and there’s no “man of the house” here, anymore. Carl had barely kept it trimmed, anyway, even when he was here.

I get out of the car, and trot my way up to the front porch to ring the doorbell. I sway my ass in a way made easy by my three-inch heels, and notice that the older gentleman sitting on his step two doors down is watching me. I give him a show as I bend over to check whether my seams are straight, and it’s in this position that Penny sees me as she opens the door.

“Ahem,” she grins. “Showing off again, Nix?”

I make no real effort to speed up, but I do rise soon to meet her gaze, smiling. “Penny, dear, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Honestly!”

“All right, enough of that, now. Come in before you give poor Mr. Jenkins another heart attack!”

“I gave him one before?”

“No, I’m sure that was just coincidence. Now come in!”

I step over the threshold and into her living room. Penny lives in a smaller house than I do, but her touch has turned it as comfy as possible. The chairs are lived-in, but re-upholstered to look spiffy, except where Carl’s cigarette-stained hands have violated the crisp colors. I do not miss him for many reasons, but his smoking is high up on the list. The smell lingers, even after the months of his absence and the industrial-strength air fresheners.

She leads me into the kitchen, where I sit down at her breakfast table, crossing my legs. She gets me a cup of herbal tea (cinnamon! mmmmm!) and then sits across from me. We chat about the weather, and she tries to avoid talking about the divorce, but it edges its way into the conversation like an unwelcome visitor.

“... and I hate that lawyers are taking so much of the nest egg we built for so long. I wanted to just split things amicably between us—even give him a bit more, since he has brought in most of the money—but he insisted on “fair and equitable” involving lawyers. So it turns out, I’ll actually get more than I was asking for, but the excess will go to paying legal fees anyway, so it’s a wash. God, why couldn’t he have been more mature about it?”

“Yeah, guys are a bit out of it when it comes to that stuff. Why be so vindictive, you know?”

“Well...” Now Penny looked down. “He was very jealous of... well, of you and me.”

“Oh.” Penny was one of the first girls Master had told me to masturbate about and, later, to be with. She was perhaps the girl I was closest to, of all those I had been with sexually. I think if I were wired differently, I could be in love with her. She’s that special. “But he knew the whole time...”

“Yes, he did, but I think he thought of it as something that I did to turn him on. I was straight before we met, you know, and he thought it was something that I only did when he wasn’t here to satisfy my hunger.” I don’t miss her glance downward at my calves and thighs. I was wet in the car on the way over, but now my pussy is giving out a pleasant and pervasive throb. “But I think he started to think that it was more than that, for me.”

I lean in, sparkles in my eyes. “And was it?”

“Oh... yess...” She is looking at me with a lot of interest right now. Did her thighs just squeeze together within her pants? “I think what finally got him, what finally made him leave, was...”

“Yes?” I am ready to pounce on her, and I know she won’t resist me.

“... was the time I called out your name when he ate my pussy out.”

“Unhhhh...” I moan as I lock my lips to hers, and take her face in my hands. Her hands are busy on my tits, through my dress, the nipples prodding her fingertips through the new bra, as I taste her tongue and feel her firm but gentle lips caressing mine. I shift forward, enough to rock me out of my chair, but she catches me in her lap, straddling her thigh, my cuntal bulge rubbing her leg, dampening her pants. She gasps for breath, and looks at me in adoration, and it gives me a tingle to know how much she wants me. I slide my red nails across her belly, and down into the humidity of her pants. She’s not wearing panties. Another thing we have in common.

I’ve got my finger in her snatch, and I’m pumping it in and out while I stroke her button with my thumb, not gently now, but firm and rhythmic. She’s backed away now, no longer kissing me, just riding my hand. I look at her face, what I’m doing to her, and she parts her shirt for me. No bra, either. Good. Easy access to the nipples I need to suck. I wrap my mouth around one while I continue fingering her, and it sends her over the edge to feel the suction. She rides my finger as she groans, “Nikki, oh, Nikki, yes!”

As she slows, I dramatically withdraw my hand, and ensure she’s watching as I slowly and deliberately lick it clean. Her eyes are glowing, and the dampness at her crotch tells me she is not done yet. Which is good, because I’m not done with her yet.

I drop to my knees on the kitchen floor, feeling the coolth of the tile through my hose. Penny is looking down at me and wiggling her ass out of the pants. Soon her cunt is bare to my gaze, and I’m falling into it like I have a million times before, as her taste and smell overwhelm me, and I fuck her with my lips and tongue, languorously, until she grabs the back of my hair with both hands and braces me so she can buck upward into my mouth. I swallow her fuck and moan into her wetness, smearing my lipstick on her inner lips, desperately, impossibly trying to get inside her with my whole face. I have Master for my owner, but sometimes I want to feel like an owner, and for the duration of this moment, of my mouth on her, I own her pussy. She thinks so too, and proves it by giving me more of her orgasms on my tongue.

When her thigh-sweat/slitjuice has utterly ruined my rouge, and she has pushed me back a bit because she’s too sensitive this close after coming the third time, I grin at her and give her a wink. “Well, you didn’t call out my name this time. Are you sure I’m doing this right?”

She’s panting and can barely answer, but she makes a valiant effort. “Just a sec. I’ll show you how to do it.”

And as I lie back with my thighs spread, I can tell by the look on her face, as she looms over me like a predator, that I am in for the cuntsucking of my life. She’s licking her way up my stocking seam, now, and knows I’ll be calling out her name before the afternoon is done...

* * *

Penny kisses me hard and deeply on the doorstep, but as much as my flavor on her lips is reminding me how much fun it would be to stay, I do need to get going. The mall is always a madhouse, and it’s already 3pm. The house is mostly clean, but I’d like to get a little more preparation time before Master brings Stu home at six...

Regretfully, Penny lets me leave her arms with an admonition to come again soon. I laugh at the double entendre and tell her that I will, assuredly, this evening when Master gets home. She looks jealous. And a glance over at Mr. Jenkins as I strut over to the car implies he is jealous of both of us. I make sure to flash him with legs askew as I enter the driver-side door, and give him a smile and a wink as I pass him on my way out of the neighborhood. Nice old guy. I hope his wife takes good care of him.

As expected, the mall parking lot is swarming with people, many of them teenagers just getting off school. I note a couple of older girls who I’d like to bed, and hope tenaciously that they’re over eighteen. I may be deliriously fuckhungry most (all) of the time, but I am not a sicko!

I get several wolf-whistles from guys as I walk from the back end of the parking lot to the Sears entrance, and I make sure I put extra wiggle in my ass to let them know I appreciate the compliment.

I fight through the inconvenient layout of Sears (should’ve used another entrance), and out into the mall proper. Or improper, as I find when I travel up the escalator and hear a hissed, “Oh my God, dude!” I look down to find out what’s going on, and it turns out two teenage guys, drinking sodas in uncomfortable lounge chairs, are staring up my skirt as I rise to the second floor. I turn away, pretending not to notice, but it’s hard not to grin at the reaction. I’m not saying I part my legs a bit more as the stairs move upward. I’m certainly not saying I do. But it’s possible I may, to give myself an extra tingle in my clit. Mmmmm... I might need to stop in the ladies’ room before I hit the store.

I decide that somehow I will manage (and the fact that I sometimes like to be caught in the dressing room fingering my pussy has nothing to do with that, I assure you), and walk past several hat stores and a place selling sunglasses into the place which is my goal: Fredericks.

I know the gal behind the counter, casually. She doesn’t really turn me on, or I’m sure I would have slept with her already, but she recognizes me and smiles a greeting. She’s a bit on the boyish side, and—I’ll be honest: if I want boyish, I’ll wait for Master to get home and give it to me hard. I like pretty, femmy girls with long hair—the longer, the better. Sometimes I have fun rubbing the hair against my tits while being sucked off. Mmmm...

Concentrate, girl! I admonish myself as my pussy starts to warm at the thought, but it’s probably no use. I grab a couple of random articles off the shelves and head directly for the changing room, because if I don’t get off again soon I’m never going to be able to think clearly enough to even remember my size.

I close and lock the door, throw the lingerie bits to the floor and sit on the changing bench.

Staring into the mirror, I tease myself by spreading my legs—only a bit at first— and slowly stroke my legs from heel to thigh, sensuously but almost innocently. But watching myself touching, rubbing, my red nails lightly (and oh-so-carefully) scratching their way up the thin fabric, I grow impatient with this foreplay. I brace my heels on the wall at either side of the mirror, and look at my hands: one holding up my skirt so my view is unobstructed, the other parting my cunt lips and starting to masturbate. I love the aroma and the flavor of my own pussy, but right now I’m really admiring the look. I’ve “abused” her several times today, and she’s all engorged with reds and pinks and purples and shiny with tasty juice. I only keep my fingers inside for a moment, thrusting gently, to coat my fingers in delicious lubricant before I abandon the inner hole and start to massage the hot button that is my clit. I’m biting back moans right now, though I imagine my panting is probably equally audible, and I close my eyes, savoring the tickles as I make circles with my delicate flesh, held loosely between two fingers.

I build, and build, and I know I’m damned close to soaking my skirt again, and I open my eyes and see my face: reddened, heavy breathing, and utterly sensual. In sheer narcissistic fervor, this pushes my libido to the breaking point and my pulse pounds in my head (and in my pussy; yes, my pussy!) as I push my heels into the wall with force enough to dent it. I am coming, and to hell with decorum. I’m not screaming, exactly, but it can’t be any secret what’s going on in this dressing room.

I coast downward, slowly, my feet dropping back to the floor, and in my recovery start to examine the hastily-grabbed lingerie I brought in with me. Most of it is not my size and can be ignored completely.

The merrywidow would fit me, but the garters are thin, weak things. Which would work out fine if I confined my wear to the bedroom, but I’m a practical gal: those plastic clips will break too easily, and the elastic in the straps will stretch to uselessness after about four wears. Sigh. Hosiery’s not the only thing I have to buy online (although the reasons differ). Anything with useful garters on it is pretty much impossible to find; the stupid manufacturers design for how cute the model will look in something lacy and delicate, not for pragmatism. And while I like the cute models as much as anyone, I feel that I’m wasting cash if I can’t wear my fuck-me clothes to the grocery store in addition to while spread-eagled on my bed. I suppose it’s my old life talking—when you have lived hand-to-mouth for years, as I did when I was younger, you show disdain for things which are poorly thought out.

At any rate, there’s not much useful here, and my blush is fading... but, lo! and behold, there’s a black silk thong, and it’s just my size! I try it on to make sure, but there’s really no question. I am always happy when the world conspires to make things work out for me; Master laughs at my beliefs in fate and destiny, but I think he’s just unimaginative, that way. (He’s quite imaginative in all the important ways, so I have no complaints.) I remove the panties and open the dressing room door.

I’ve gathered quite a crowd, I fear, and I get a mixed reaction from the members. Some of them (all of the men, and most of the women) are smiling at me, some in amusement, others in admiration. I flash them a smile of my own. Others are looking at me with disdain, their faces uglied with frowns. I give those women an even bigger smile, and a wink, as I walk to the register. The butch chick behind the counter is staring at me with new interest as she rings up the thong, and I note that she is surreptitiously smelling her fingers after she handles the panties. I throw away the bag she offers, opting to carry the thong home barehanded. It’s fun to see people’s reactions when they see what I’m holding.

The woman behind me in line, one of the less pleasant of the crowd earlier, mutters, “Filthy whore!” under her breath, and it gives me a delightful little charge to hear one of my Master’s other little nicknames for me, even voiced by this bitch. I make sure to lick my lips at her, as I turn away from the counter, and hear more exclamations of the “Well, I’ve never!” sort behind me as I go back into the mall.

It’s good she’s in Fredericks, I think to myself, because that woman desperately needs to get laid.

* * *

It’s late, and Stu has left, now. He commented on how tasty the picante sauce was, and Master agreed, telling him, “Nikki adds her own special spices to the mix, don’t you, my dear?”

I was ecstatic that Master had noticed. I had used nearly the entire jar marked (in handwritten letters) “Slut-Cunt Juice” that I’d accumulated for weeks and stored in the lower shelf of the fridge. The rest I’d drunk myself, straight, after I had put the saucepot on the burner. I know I love the taste, and I hope Stu did, too. I can tell from the bulge in Master’s pants that he knows what I have done—he has no doubt noticed the empty jar in the sink, or perhaps noticed my breath when we kissed earlier. The possibility that Stu may have smelled me on my breath when I gave him a brief hug goodbye makes me tingle. A lot.

“Did you have a nice day, dear?” Master says as he leans back on the couch, flipping off his shoes with his toes at the back of his heels.

“I did! I fucked myself...” It takes me a while to count, but I give him the number: “Seven times. At least, that I remember. Elaine had me under for over an hour, and usually I don’t remember that part too well.”

He frowns. “I don’t like that very much, my dear. A slut should be rewarded for fingering herself to orgasm, and it’s not fair of her to let you forget. Perhaps we need to find another shrink.”

“Okay,” I say—dejectedly, for some reason. I brighten again. “But I can at least go back to lick her cunt from time to time? Pretty please?”

Master looks at me skeptically. “Hmmm... perhaps. I’m not sure what she’s been putting in your head lately, and you seem a bit too insistent. We’ll see.”

I want to allay his suspicions, so I agree with him wholeheartedly. He looks satisfied... mostly. Not to worry, I’ll make him see that there is nothing wrong with me serving Elaine as her personal cuntwhore. After all, it isn’t like she can steal me away from him! You can’t be hypnotized into doing something you don’t really want to do, deep down. Mmmm... down. As in “going down”. On Mistress Elaine, my head dizzy as I stare into her eyes... I hike up my skirt a little and cross my legs, showing Master a stocking top and a hint of garter clasp.

He certainly takes notice. “So, how about the rest of your day?”

“Ummm...” I reach across to his lap, and start to unzip his fly. “Can I please tell you later on? Afterwards?”

“Afterwards? After what, pray tell?” He is grinning.

“After this whore worships her Master’s cock with her tongue? Please? I’ve been waiting patiently all day!” My hand is in his pants, now, setting him free of his boxers. His cock is marvelously solid and thick. I know he’ll let me suck him off, and I uncross my legs and leave them spread so he can see my black-pantied crotch, already slick. He leans back and presents the object of my addiction. I am on my knees on the floor between his feet in an instant. He looks down on me like a benevolent deity—which, to me, he always is.

I stare deep into his eyes while my mouth slowly slides down him, taking all eight inches in my throat. My fingers, no longer needed as I move my neck up and down in his favorite motions, drop to the hem of my skirt and raise it so he can see all of my glory, how much I want him and desire him and need him. Holding onto the fabric with one hand, I use the other to pull aside my new thong, part my inner lips, and smear my fuckjuice all over my pubis and upper thighs. He watches me all the while, and I can feel him pulsing in my throat, instants away from shooting into me. I finger my snatch with vigor and purpose. My prize, his come, is near.

“Mmmm... come for me, my little slut,” he moans, and his fluids are squirting into my body. I’m almost there. “Come for Master, my love. My wife.”

Oh, and I do, I do! Whenever he calls me “wife”, or when he makes me kiss the gold band on his finger, or rub my own wedding ring on my clit, I always come hardest of all—better even than when he licks my slut-cunt, though I’d never tell him that.

A girl’s got to have some secrets.