There is one wonderful thing about waiting for your submissive to arrive, you know she won't be late, well not unless she has a really good reason or really enjoys pain, degradation and humiliation. Today, however, I was impatient. Why? Because I'd never met Martha before. We had been playing on-line for almost two years now, but really being in control of her, her responses and reactions beyond all doubt, actually in the flesh, that had lain far beyond my wildest dreams; we lived so far apart. I knew exactly what she looked like, right down to the last intimate detail. I had never demanded photographs for the sake of curiosity or as proof of her obedience, ultimately you need faith and trust, but I had used them to humiliate her. My collection showed her in the most outrageous of poses often with a selection of sex toys and other objects sprouting from various orifices or, sometimes, covered in lipstick scrawled obscenities. I had my camera and a lipstick handy, ready for her stay.
The collection of toys that I had assembled was completely functional but a little improvised. We were only meeting because I had been despatched to the States on business. When I had mentioned that destination I was to be dispatched to Martha had declared that I was being sent to 'her town,' declaring with enthusiasm that it was 'a sign.' So she had been the one to propose that I took charge of her physically and, at my whim, used or abused her for my own sensuous gratification. Dominant I might be but previously I had been too scared to even consider such a possibility: I know something precious when I own it, our partnership was one thing I had not the least inclination to spoil and Martha's enduring obedience was priceless so far as I was concerned. Still, once the offer had been made, it was an opportunity that I could no longer even imagine passing up. The way US airports scan luggage though I had not dared to pack toys and so I had had to assemble a collection of instruments for delivering pleasure and pain locally.
I had ordered a cab and a very bewildered driver had taken me to a huge shopping complex, literally a sprawl, right out on the edge of town. First I visited a builders store; screw-eyes, dowel, some dinky brass fixtures, candles, a well insulated ice-bucket, a plastic bowl, a packet of clothes pegs, pins they called them, and a small hand saw had all gone into my trolley. At a vast household emporium I had added: soft cotton rope, a wooden spoon, a ball of string, two toothbrushes, shoe laces, a stiff shoe brush, six dog collars and a bundle of garden canes to my collection. A sports store had supplied me with me practice golf balls. Finally, an outsized pharmacy had provided me with an equally outsized tub of petroleum jelly; Martha was going to suffer at my hands but I did not want her becoming sore. I had bought a sleep mask at the airport on my way out, in case you thought that I had forgotten a blindfold.
After I returned to my hotel I made a foray to a local sex shop; bookstore indeed. Nipple-clamps, a string of beads each slightly larger than the last, a small but powerful bullet and a rabbit all went into my basket. I really wanted a wand but they aren't cheap and, even if I had the nerve to pack it, the US voltage would make it useless when I returned home. Once I had these items I was all set, leather belts and a silk tie were packed before I even left home. A hotel room is not the ideal place to amuse yourself with a new sex slave but it would have to do. Anyway me, Martha and my camera could go out for walks whilst they made up my room. Yes, lucky me indeed, Martha was staying from Friday evening until Monday morning, sixty four glorious hours. I didn't ask what she had done with her hubby, I knew little about her domestic situation except that Martha regarded being instructed to seduce hubby as a punishment rather than a pleasure.
Whilst I waited I flipped through some photographs of Martha on my tablet, they made my already almost painfully stiff prick twitch in my trousers an ooze clear sticky goo. She was twenty years younger than I, in her early thirties. Her dark brown, almost black, hair was thick and lustrous, framing her face with natural waves and not quite falling into her dark brown eyes. The origins of her forebears were clearly Mediterranean, her olive skin attested to that and a love of pasta was alluded to by her ample breasts with their almost brown nipples and her well rounded bottom. Her mons was padded, her labia crinkled and prominent, pouting proudly just asking for clamps or clips to be applied. When we first began to play she had sported a dense bush of black pubic hair but for well over a year I had delighted in sending her to have this waxed away regularly.
Through the wonders of the internet I had found a delightful place for her to have her pubic ripped from her flesh. They waxed not only her pudendum and inside the crack of her buttocks but finished off their handiwork by removing any stray hairs with tweezers. That just had to hurt. For the three days before she was waxed I would make Martha go without orgasm, edging herself four times each day, thus ensuring that when she arrived to be waxed she was on a sexual hair-trigger. And, by the end of each of her appointments, either despite the pain, or possibly because of it, she was always really wet and horny and desperate to masturbate. To make things worse for her, once the waxing and tweezering was completed the girl rubbed a thick, soothing, perfumed lotion into Martha's sex and, whilst she was careful never to touch Martha's clitoris or the entrance to her sex, her usual girl always caught her anus with a finger just before the end. This, Martha had confessed to me, never failed to make her gasp with pure lust, leaving her more needful than ever. Martha had also confided that after the girl had triggered her that way, if she were ever to commence massaging her clitoris Martha would be completely powerless to stop her, would almost certainly come and probably in record time.
