A Slave to Her Mistress
by Couture
email: [email protected]

Please do not read if under 18 years of age or 
offended by sexually explicit stories and situations.  

(c) 2002 Couture

***********

You're only sitting here because your computer at home 
is broken.  Yes, the old 400 Mhz has surfed it's last 
erotic story site and taken with it every last story 
you archived to a hidden 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 stories 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 hidden 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 story is about two young girls dominated by two 
older women in a public restroom.  The story 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 pussy 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 stories . 
. .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 pussy 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 panties 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 panties lying balled up in your 
purse.  You quickly look away, hoping she missed them.  
She didn't.  That wicked little cunt never misses 
anything.

Leaving the pussy 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 panties 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 cunt soaked liner.  Hands quickly unbutton your 
blouse, pulling your breasts 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 cunt 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 hole of the panties 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 cum 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 picture 
of a thirty-year-old housewife and mother 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 camera 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 panties 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 breasts 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 picture 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 red 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 girl 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 pussy 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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