-----------------------------
It was shaping up to be a quiet afternoon. Clint had said
that he had to go to the dentist for a cleaning and then to the dealership to
have the car serviced before he traded it in. I’d insisted that I could clean
up from lunch, so I’m doing exactly that. He’s been gone about twenty minutes.
My
text tone goes off. When I look down, it’s him: You will take direction. Are you finished with lunch cleanup yet?
I text back, Yes, Sir. All finished.
Good. Go to the fetwear store. Pick out two
outfits, try them on, and text me with a pic from the dressing room when you’re
wearing the first one.
What
the heck is this all about? I get dressed, snatch up my keys, and head out the
door. It’s not too far to the store, and I’m there in just a few minutes. When
I pull up, something makes me text to him, Aren’t
you at the dentist, Sir?
I
immediately get back a text that simply says, You will take direction.
Yes, Sir. Wrong question, apparently.
Once inside, the girl I usually see there isn’t working. There’s another woman,
this one not too much younger than me, and she’s stocking. “Can I help you with
something?” she asks. She seems friendly enough.
“I
need two new outfits. Any suggestions?” I’m prowling through the racks already,
looking for something that will work.
“This
is nice,” she says and whips out a leather dress. It’s black, but around the
bottom, it’s red, and cut from the red is flames which go up the dress about
ten inches, so it’s like the hem is on fire. Really cute. She finds a cute little
red jacket to go with it.
“I
like this. What about these?” I ask, holding up a pair of bright pink satin tap
pants with rhumba ruffles across the butt.
“Oh,
yeah. I liked those when we got them in. Here,” she says, handing me a black
bra with bright pink polka-dots. “Whaddya think?”
“Very
cute! Can I try these on?” I ask her, and she points to the dressing room.
I
try on the dress, take a selfie, and text Clint: Here’s the first one, Sir.
I
get back a terse, No. Try on the second.
When
I’ve got the bra and shorts on, I text him again: What about this, Sir?
Again,
just, No. Try again.
Now I’m kind of put
out. I text back to him, Sir, maybe if
you’d tell me what you’re thinking, I could do a little better job of picking
something out.
Instead
of a real answer, he replies, Play to
your strengths, Vännan .
What
the hell does that mean? I stump back out of the dressing room. “He says no; he
says to play to my strengths. I don’t know what that means.”
The
woman looks me up and down. “Hmmmm.” That’s all she says. She starts poking
through the racks, so I do too. In a few minutes, she says, “Here.”
What
she hands me is completely different from what I would’ve chosen. It’s a lace
chemise, beautiful and delicate, in a pale turquoise trimmed with pearls,
complete with underwire cups. There’s a little thong that matches it, plus it
has its own pair of turquoise stockings to go with it. I’d spotted some brocade
floral platforms and, sure enough, they have this particular shade of turquoise
in their pattern. I retreat back into the dressing room, slip everything on,
and forward a photo. What I get back shocks me.
Now THAT’S more like it. Find a second
outfit.
I
never would’ve picked something like this. It’s beautiful, but I thought
fetwear was supposed to be leather. This is just sexy lingerie. I go back out
to the floor, have the clerk help me pick out another outfit, and go back in.
This one is a peachy colored lace bra and high-legged bikini panties trimmed
with black satin. It’s very 40’s-looking. I put on black stockings and black
stilettos and take another pic. This response is even more surprising.
You’re beautiful, Trish. Buy both outfits,
go home, and wash them. Put them up to dry with the fan trained on them. Apparently
he wants them dry so I can wear them later.
Well, I guess that’s
that. I pay the clerk, with Ron’s credit card, of course, and head back to
Clint’s. Once they’re washed and hung up, I text back, Mission accomplished, Sir. What next?
They’re calling me back to the chair. Take a
nap, one hour. Shower. Dress in the black-trimmed outfit. Be in your place when
I arrive.
I do exactly as I’m
told. When I’m dressed in the new outfit, I take a proper assessment of myself.
My hair is perfect, my makeup is nice but not overdone. I walk away and then,
for some reason, I wheel around and look at myself in the mirror from across
the room.
And
I gasp. All of a sudden, it all makes sense. The outfit shows off my every
curve in a very soft, feminine way, not all industrial like the leather looks.
I look very sexy, very voluptuous, and sort of – sweet? With my fair skin,
the peachy color makes me sort of glow. It’s actually fairly captivating, my
appearance across the room. If I were a guy, I’d want to . . .
Fuck
me. I’d want to fuck me. Now I see
what he was trying to say. I look okay in leather, but I look very, very hot in
something soft and feminine. It’s like something deep inside me has lit up and
come to life. I take another look in the mirror and realize I’m smiling –
at myself. And suddenly I can’t wait for Clint to get here so I can see his
reaction. I know he saw the selfie I made, but that’s not the same as seeing
the real thing.
So
I kneel in my place and wait. I’m there for maybe twenty-five minutes when I
hear the car alarm being set. Head down, palms up, I sit perfectly still. The
door opens, the keys go into the bowl on the table, and I know he’s turned to
look at me. There’s silence in the house, not a sound. Finally, he comes to me
until I can see his shoes. “Sub, rise and face your master.” His voice is
authoritative and final. I stand quickly and he says, “Look at me.”
My
face finds his eyes and I see that they’re almost smiling. “Do you understand
why I chose these things over the previous choices?” he asks me.
I
nod. “Yes, Sir. They’re beautiful, Sir,” I whisper almost inaudibly.
“No.
They’re not beautiful.” He reaches out and cups my breasts in his hands. “You’re
beautiful in them.” My nipples
instantly grow hard under the lace and satin, and he says, “On your knees in
front of the couch, facing it. Torso on the cushions, arms extended out across
them.” When I’ve assumed the position, I feel him move the crotch of the
panties to the side and two fingers slip into my pussy. “God, you’re wet. I’ll
take my pleasure now.” I hear his belt buckle clank as he unbuckles, then the
sound of the zipper on his fly fills the room.
I
was unprepared when his hand smacked my ass, first one cheek, then the other,
but I feel juices gush between my pussy lips and my arms start to tremble. Five
strikes on each ass cheek, and then I feel the head of his cock at the entrance
to my sheath.
In
one efficient movement, he’s buried in me. I groan out, louder than I had when
he’d smacked me, and the sound stokes his fire. I love the feel of his fingers
digging into my hips, holding me steady as he glides in and out of me, and I
start to cry out. To my surprise, he grunts out, “Come whenever you’re ready,
sub.”
It
surprises me even more to hear the sob that bolts from my lips when my orgasm
hits, and to my disbelief, he cries out and comes almost instantly after my
orgasm starts. I’m overwhelmed with the sounds and sensations, the pinch of his
fingers in my flesh, the tears rolling down my cheeks and my hair down and all
around my face. He abruptly pulls me back and onto his cock as he kneels on the
floor, me perched on him, my back to his chest. His arms wind around my waist, holding me against him, and he whispers into
my ear, “You’re so beautiful, so damn beautiful.”
I
begin to weep openly. I’m unaccustomed to hearing those words – ever. I’ve
never thought of myself as ugly exactly, but I’ve also never thought of myself
as beautiful. “Sir, I . . .”
One
of Clint’s hands wraps around my neck ever so lightly and he growls, “If you’re
thinking of arguing with me, don’t. You’re beautiful, Trish.”
And
that clinches it. I start to sob. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he whispers and kisses
my cheek. Before I can answer, I’m standing, my panties are back in place, and
he sits down on the sofa and pulls me onto his lap. “Talk to me, sub. That’s an
order.”
I
stammer and stutter, “I’m not beautiful.”
Something
crosses his face. “Stand up.” When I’m standing, he barks, “Hands on the sofa.”
I know what’s coming.
Thwack! His hand comes down hard across
my ass, and then again and again. Ten strikes in, he sits back down and draws
me back onto his lap. “You’re beautiful, Trish. And how do you respond?”
I
smile through my tears. “Thank you, Sir.”
He
pulls my head down onto his shoulder, my face against his collarbone, and he
whispers back, “You’re welcome.”
