Sarah and her friends Cat and Jake have appeared previously in two femdom stories,
'Strength is a Caged Cock'
and '
My Love is Like a Red, Red Arse'
. Jake is submissive to his wife Cat, who sometimes delegates to Sarah. So while Sarah's mentioned she's a switch, who sometimes submits to her fiancé Duncan, this is the first story where you get to meet him and see that (apart from
'Submissives of Catan
', which is mainly snarky flirting and an excuse for a ridiculous amount of gaming puns...)
Many thanks to joy_of_cooking for beta reading.
___
Bad Brat Girl
"Sarah? Let's stay in the other hotel, down the road? And arrive the day before."
I smiled at Duncan, my fiancé. We both knew that an extra night in a hotel meant a thoroughly dirty weekend. Especially if it wasn't the hotel that would be swarming with the other guests attending the same wedding.
"Go on the Friday?" I realised a timing problem. "That's the day of my big meeting in Oxford."
"That's OK, love. You pack everything the day before, I'll drive up, you get the train, meet me there." Duncan grinned. "I can pretend I don't know you. Meeting a girl in a hotel bar. You know what bar girls are like! I bet she'd be a right slut..."
Our minds worked on the same lines. Dunc always liked me role-playing a slut. Some might say, it wasn't role-playing.
Hence, two months later, I'd spent all day being a respectable Product Manager, giving presentations. Then I got my train, trying to psych myself up into becoming a sex object for the night. For an hour, I read porn on my phone. It nudged me towards the right mindset. As did Duncan's text:
'Are you a naughty girl, Sarah? I know you are! Show me.'
I knew how to prove it, in a way he'd appreciate. I put a couple items in my coat pocket, then left my large bag on my seat, heading with just my phone and coat to the train toilet.
A quick wash. I took the solid perspex butt plug out of my pocket, slipped a condom over it, ripped open a sachet of lube, and squirted the contents over the tip. I binned the sachet and condom wrapper, leaving no evidence here of me being a slut. Then, one forearm resting on the basin, I bent over. I couldn't see my arse, but even so, just knowing what was hidden from the mirror turned me on. I pointed the plug between my arse-cheeks.
The train wobbled. Lube smeared up and down. That rounded end pressed against my arsehole. It slipped in an inch or so, because I'm that easy. The juddering of the train helped, as I gently urged the toy upwards.
I've got a very welcoming arse. That's what Duncan says, too. I just think about getting penetrated in my dirtiest, most embarrassing hole, and my sphincter just pops right open, letting the full girth of a slick cock or plug slide in. It worked this time, too.
I cheated a little. It's really difficult taking photos of your own bottom. Even if you aren't on a moving train. So I have a folder of similar sexy photos I've collected. Some I just copied off Fetlife; others are of me, but I got my mate Jake to take them. He insisted on good lighting, so even the ones designed to look 'bad' look pretty good. As in, they show exactly what they are, a woman in the middle of purposefully pushing a sex toy into her bum.
I picked one of me with a white and grey blurred background. Jake's utility room could pass as a train toilet, right?
I sent it to Duncan. 'Proof' that I'm a dirty girl for him. At least, that was the 'dirty'. Now, for the 'girl'.
For work, I intentionally wear clothes and make-up to make me look both older and more senior than I am. Given I'm five foot nothing and look Chinese, that means people still underestimate me. They rarely believe I'm early-thirties, though at least when I speak, they soon realise I know what I'm talking about. But it only takes scrubbing my face clean, and turning my coiled plaits into two long black pigtails, for no-one in Britain to ever guess that I'm over twenty-one. Nowadays I look just-adult, probably eighteen -- there's
some
advantages to my big curvy tits and arse -- but definitely young enough that people assume Duncan, a large dodgy brown guy with a lush black beard, is twice my age and taking advantage of me. He's only three years older!
I adjusted the pigtails to a more jaunty angle, like Abby off NCIS. They still reached to my armpits. I looked like one of the thousands of Chinese or Japanese or other Asian students cluttering up universities here; the kind with an anime fetish. Ah, fetishes! If only they knew...
A few tugs of my pencil skirt made it the more risqué type of 'above the knee'. Time for a genuine selfie for Duncan. He looks naturally older than he is -- tall, hairy, muscular, thick facial hair -- so playing up the difference between us is fun. How might a 'middle-aged man' -- Dunc's only thirty-five, nowhere near! -- take advantage of what looked like a naive student playing with kinky ideas?
He sent a pic back, showing off his carefully-groomed beard. Designer stubble on the sides, small moustache and goatee trimmed to perfection. Makes him look at least forty, to any Brit. And hot as hell. 'Eh, leng zai, lah!!!' I replied.
'Terima kasih, lah.' He thanked me for calling him handsome. 'Meet me in the bar. Are you a girl who hangs out in bars?' The cause of the downfall of society, bar girls: according to his family, anyway.
'Yes, boss.' I sent a pic showing the height of my hemline, leaning back to expose some bare thigh above my stocking.
'That kind of girl? I wouldn't allow a girl of mine to run round like that. She should be punished.'
'Yes, Daddy.'
'Naughty girl. I love you.'
Mission accomplished!
I returned to my seat, sitting down carefully. Plugs have a habit of sliding out of your arse, no matter what the size. Reassuring, I suppose. What goes in must come out...
A nice filled feeling. Warm and friendly. Just gentle movement, as I rocked with the train's motion.
Of course, now I wanted my pussy filled. I'd just have to wait until I found Duncan.
I checked in at the hotel. The assistant took forever to process my key, even after I provided proof of age. Eventually I escaped and reached my sometimes-dominant fiancé. That night, I didn't need to be the domme. A nice change, though I knew I'd think differently at some point that evening.
"Hello, Sarah, love. Don't you look lovely! I'll keep your coat. Another for me, and get yourself a drink, too."
I waited at the bar, knowing half the clientele would be eyeing up my hemline. I wasn't surprised when I had to do the walk of shame back to the table, to fetch my driving licence from said coat. Every time I do my hair in bunches, I'm asked for ID. Duncan grinned. He knew that, too. All part of convincing me to give up control for the night.
The barmaid had been giving him dirty looks, until realising my actual age. The usual shocked expression. I glared at her, despite knowing my usual bitch face wouldn't work with my current appearance.
I sat down, ranting in between sips of my drink, unloading all my work updates. Duncan told me about his day, too. Then, both of us mentally refreshed, we could begin our evening.
He told me how. "Eh, you go upstairs first. Freshen up, if you like. I left an outfit on the bed for you. I'll finish my drink." He checked his ostentatious watch. "I'll see you in fifteen, my girl. Be ready."
Dunc knows I love dressing up. Not normal dressing up; kinky dressing up. Much more fun. I wondered what he'd have chosen.
It wasn't so different from what I was wearing.
Another large, white, bra. Only this one, see-through lacy mesh, not respectable cotton coverage, pushed everything from the sides forwards, then held everything at the front up and out, for all to see. It changed my top half from 'curvalicious but normal', to 'pornographic', even if I wore a totally-covering turtleneck.
I put it on, knowing that shifting it round my body was taking up several of my fifteen minutes.
The flimsy blouse to go with it barely covered anything at all. I had to give up on the top two buttons: it just wouldn't do up over my chest. It was thin, cheap, fabric, the white pretty much transparent. There really wasn't much point trying to fasten it to hide the bra. Even under both layers, my brown nipples were visible.
Thick shapewear panties, basically white knickers, covering me sort-of respectably from hips to below my navel. They clung and smoothed all round my bottom, shaping my stomach, too. At least they'd hold that butt plug in place. Duncan hadn't said to remove it, so I didn't.
Long white socks, coming just up to my knees. The 'sexy schoolgirl' look usually involves thigh-high socks, often with bows. These were neither. They made me feel like I really was a young student, new to a school in England, about to be disciplined for inappropriate dress.
Because the skirt, no doubt about it, was indecent. It wasn't a tacky dress-up costume 'schoolgirl' skirt. No, this was a proper pleated wool kilt, kilt-pin and all. It fit around me -- I'd worn it for Duncan before -- but it was very short.
Not just 'bend over and people might see my knickers' short. No, that was normal for a slut like me, spanked regularly to make her behave.
This skirt was 'we can see the gusset of your knickers, and every time you take a step, we can see it's getting more damp. You're a slut, even by the standards of a slut party.'
I sighed. The foot of exposed skin between my knee-socks and the skirt made the outfit appear childish, more than sexy. Equal amounts of sock and visible thigh, emphasising how little the kilt covered. But I needed to complete the outfit, for Daddy.
If Duncan wanted me in this get-up, then I was definitely being Daddy's girl.
First, the Mary-Jane Doc Martens. Proper buckle-up shoes with a T-bar, like a good schoolgirl, the Docs chosen to make me a couple inches taller, not for the attitude. Then I adjusted the skirt around me. It still exposed my crotch.
Back when I actually was at school, we had a boarding house just for the Upper Sixth. We were all eighteen, not to mention the other foreign students who were older: nineteen, even twenty. The house had a leering housemaster, who used to say, "Nice pelmet -- where's the curtains?" when anyone wore a short skirt. With this skirt, he'd have been completely justified. And then probably have had a heart attack.
In the bathroom, I touched up my foundation, eye liner and lipstick. The lipstick colour wasn't labelled 'Slut Red', but should have been. My pout at my reflection, before blotting it with a tissue, couldn't be more obvious a signal: this mouth needs a cock to suck!
Right. One minute to spare. I tightened my pigtails and returned to the bedroom, just as the door lock clicked open. My instinct was to hide, but that really wasn't going to help me...
"Ah! Don't you look lovely, my dear?" Duncan had polished up his voice for the occasion, applying every upper-class Received Pronunciation vowel he'd ever learned. "Let me see you, little girl."
A large posh man in an impeccable suit, versus a young-looking tiny lass in indecent whore's clothing. My subservient downward gaze to his shoes was instinctive, as was clasping my hands behind my back.
"Good girl." The phrase any submissive lives for.
