Mirandas Initiation

© Greymead 2017

Friday night, when Miranda came home from work, she dropped her briefcase and the mail on the kitchen table and walked to her bedroom, loosening her suit as she walked. She kicked off her shoes and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her feet.

Fridays were special for Miranda. Getting away from a job she sincerely hated was enough to make every Friday seem like a mini vacation, and to erase the effects of a long week at work, Miranda always followed the same cleansing ritual.

The aches in her feet finally rubbed into submission, Miranda stepped into the bathroom to start her bath running, dumping a handful of bath crystals into the running water. She checked the temperature of the water and adjusted it a bit, then returned to the bedroom. Stripping her clothes off, she barely glanced at herself in the big mirror of the closed doors. There would be time to look later, after her bath. She grabbed the thick white terrycloth robe from its hook inside the closet and carried it to the bathroom.

She turned off the faucet and stooped to test the water with her hand. Smiling, she stepped into the tub and sank down to submerge herself in the fragrant warmth of her bath.

For long minutes, she simply lay on her back, eyes closed, relishing the heat spreading through her tired muscles, letting the tension, which had been building up all week to drain away.

As she began to relax, Miranda began to work the soap over her body, lathering herself up as she caressed her own body. She thrilled to the warm feelings of sexual response which slowly built to replace the tension which was leaking away from her.

As so frequently happened, her ritual bath turned into a wet self-enjoyment session. She closed her eyes and pretended that the hands which slipped over her wet body were someone else's.

Her imaginary lover cupped a breast in one hand, squeezing the nipple gently between thumb and forefinger while the other hand crept slowly down the smooth curve of her belly and into the thicket of dark, curly hair which hid the center of the warming need she was beginning to feel.

Miranda thrilled to the electric warmth, but did no more than tease herself, touching and caressing without moving toward completion. She relished the building pressures within herself and would allow them to flourish and grow slowly. Eventually, these pressures would culminate in an intense eruption of pleasure that would dwarf anything she could accomplish at this early point in the evening.

As the bath began to cool, Miranda stood and dried herself with a lushly absorbent towel. She pulled it across her nipples, thrilling to the sensation of the towel's texture against the sensitive nubs.

Wrapping herself in a thick robe, she returned to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

The mail, which sat on the corner of the table, seemed to beckon to her. She flipped through the bills and advertisements, dropping several flyers and catalogs into the waste basket unopened, dropping other items back onto the table. At the bottom of the stack was a small envelope of fine paper, addressed in a neat masculine handwriting and with no return address. She wondered who might have sent it as she slipped a butter knife under the flap to open it. On a single sheet of matching paper, in the same handwriting, was a brief note:

Miranda,

In the months since we met, I have learned a great deal about you. You are, in spite of the carefully cultured exterior you present to the world, a woman greatly concerned with the sensual. You devote a great

deal of energy to your own sexual pleasure, and are unusually adventurous in seeking out new avenues to explore. However, you are evidently in need of a sense of method in your life, since it is obvious that you

pursue your desires with a singular lack of discipline.

If you are prepared to begin your disciplinary e ucation, dress in evening wear and eat tonight at RIC's.

Miranda did not know what to think. At first, she was angry at the temerity of the author of the letter for making judgements regarding her private life and then commenting on those judgements. Then she grew a little frightened at the thought that someone had obviously spent a great deal of time observing her and analyzing her actions to arrive at a conclusion which was, the more she thought about it, probably correct. Finally, she grew intrigued at the hidden message that the author of this note was interested and available to introduce her to a world she had given some idle thought to before but had not known quite how to approach.

Abandoning the dinner she had planned to prepare, Miranda walked back to her bedroom. As she selected a black evening gown from her closet, she kept asking herself why she was taking such a chance. There was no way of knowing who the letter was from. He could be some sort of crazed killer preying on single women by appealing to their sexual desires. He could be an unscrupulous con-man setting her up for blackmail. Even if he was as he presented himself, what guarantee did she have that she would find him an interesting sexual partner? He might be terribly ugly, or just too short.

In spite of all her misgivings, Miranda's heart sang as she prepared to go out. She wore her very best black brassiere, her black lace garter belt and the special dark stockings with the seam up the back. She pulled the dress on and zipped it up the back, feeling very naughty that she wasn't wearing underwear. In short, she did not dress or act like a woman who was worried about meeting a serial killer. In fact, she was beginning to feel an erotic sort of sexual anticipation just thinking about what the evening could hold. She slipped her feet into the tallest black heels she owned and went to the car.

Twelve short minutes later, she was at RIC's, studying the faces seated at the tables. From where she stood, she could see no one sitting alone. The mysterious man had not given her instructions about how to recognize him. Come to think of it, he had said nothing more than that she was to wear evening dress and eat at RIC's tonight. When the hostess approached, she asked for a table for one.

She ordered a glass of white Zinfandel and studied the menu, looking up and appraising each man who entered the restaurant, though none entered alone. Alone or not, she felt a familiar twinge of building pleasure each time a man came in. The erotic suspense was growing and as the suspense grew, Miranda grew moister.

When the waiter asked, she ordered dinner, wondering what she should do next. She had no idea what was to happen, and was beginning to feel foolish. Perhaps this whole thing was some sort of prank. She decided to simply treat it as a nice night out, and enjoyed her dinner. When she was ready to leave, she signaled to the waiter. He informed her that her dinner had been paid for and handed her a small package and a single rose.

The package bore her name, neatly written in fancy calligraphy. She opened the package. Inside was a note and something heavy wrapped in paper. The note was written in the same calligrapher's hand. Someone had obviously gone to a lot of trouble.

Miranda,

I am glad you came to dinner.

On your way home, stop at the hardware store and buy a package of cotton clothesline. When you get home, remove your dress and sit at the foot of the bed to await my call.

Again, there was no signature. Miranda began to unwrap the paper, but stopped and looked around, blushing when she realized what was in the package. It was handcuffs. A new urgency was added to the erotic force growing inside her. She hurried to her car and drove to a hardware store.

Inside her front door, she leaned for a moment against the wall. What was she doing? What was she getting involved in? Part of her mind was telling her to stop this silly charade and take control, be safe. But the part she was listening to was the dark voice which told her that all her sexual fantasies might be realized in one fabulous night. She walked through to her bedroom and turned on the light. She felt silly as she slipped her dress off and hung it on its hanger. She felt sillier as she sat down at the foot of the bed, the package of clothesline laying beside her thigh, hard and heavy. She felt just as silly fifteen minutes later when she was still sitting in her underwear waiting for his call.

To pass the time, she unwrapped the handcuffs. She wasn't very familiar with handcuffs, but these seemed just a little odd to her. They seemed to be made for three wrists. Each cuff was attached to a six-inch length of chain, and all three chains were attached to one central steel ring. There was no key included in the package. The feel of the cold steel made a new thrill run through her. This was accompanied by a vague mental image of herself, cuffed helplessly as a faceless man stroked the fine, soft skin of her defenseless body.

She jumped. The sudden ring of the telephone, interrupting her reverie was like a cold, electric blade tickling her inner being. She picked up the phone. This would be her first personal contact with her mysterious stranger.

"Hello, Miranda."

It was a woman's voice. Damn. Wrong number. She did not recognize the voice.

"Did you buy the clothesline?"

Miranda's heart leaped. This put a whole new twist on her adventure. Suddenly all resistance was swept away. Although she could not have explained it logically, the fact that this was a woman allowed her to place a great deal more trust in her mysterious stranger's hands. "Y-yes," her voice seemed about to abandon her, her throat was unusually dry. She knew she must sound unsure of herself, childish. The fact was, that was suddenly exactly how she felt: unsure and childish. "Wh-who are you?"

"Call me Mistress, Miranda."

The voice was pleasant, but firm. She expected Miranda to give her utter obedience.

"Have you unwrapped what was in the package?"

"Yes...." Miranda answered, nervous because she was uncertain whether this was the response the voice wanted to hear.

"We will address your tendency to act without direction later. In the meantime, I want you to unlock your front door, then get a knife and bring it into the bedroom with you. I will wait for you to return."

Miranda set the telephone down and went into the front hall. She turned the little button in the knob, unlocking the door, then went to the kitchen. She selected a knife and returned, retrieving the telephone. "I have the knife."

"Good. Open the clothesline and cut off two pieces, each four feet long."

Miranda tore open the plastic wrapping and unrolled a length of clothesline. She measured off what she thought was about four feet and sawed at it with the knife. She found that she had to put the phone down to manage it. Finally, task accomplished, she picked the phone up. "Okay, I've got the rope."

"What took so long? Dull knives, eh? Okay, now tie an end of each piece of rope to the posts at the foot of your bed, one at each corner."

Again, Miranda had to set the phone down. This task did not take long. She informed her Mistress that she was done.

"Are the knots good and tight?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Very good. Now I want you to sit in the middle of the bed and tie the other end of each rope around your ankles...remember to make them long enough that you can reach the headboard of your bed when you are done."

Miranda made short work of this task as well. The act of tying herself up for her unseen Mistress was causing the newly familiar sexual heat to rise again. She longed to touch her pussy. She knew it was growing damp with her excitement. She picked up the phone. "I'm done, Mistress," her voice betrayed the erotic pressure which was building inside her.

"Good. Now get the handcuffs. Do you know what they are for?"

"Not exactly. I mean two of them are for my wrists, right?"

"Yes. I want you to fasten a cuff on each wrist. When you have done that, I want you to hang up the telephone and then fasten the third cuff to the rail on top of your headboard and wait."

"How long will I wait?" It didn't occur to Miranda to wonder just how her Mistress knew what the headboard on her bed was like.

"Until I get there."

Miranda did as she was told. When she was done, she was laying on her back in the middle of her bed, wearing nothing but black brassiere, garter belt and stockings. She realized that she needed to pee. Too bad. She was locked up tight. She hoped that her Mistress would be here soon.

Two hours later, Miranda felt like she was about to burst with the building pressure on her bladder. Her sexual thrill was forgotten in the face of this urgent physical need. She knew that if it were much longer, she would not be able to hold it any longer and would pee her bed. She couldn't imagine anything quite so humiliating.

When she heard the front door opening she suddenly realized that anyone who happened by could open it and come in. She grew worried. All she could see through her bedroom doorway was a small bit of the wall on the other side of the hall.

A small chill crept into the base of her spine. She pictured the paper boy, come to collect and finding the door unlatched, entering to find out if everything was all right. She could imagine the teenager's surprise at finding her laying, wearing only her sexiest underwear, helpless on her bed and being discovered by him. Oddly, she found the idea a little exciting. The urgency of her full bladder was not forgotten, but its priority was lessened by this new sensation.

She could hear the intruder in the front area of the apartment, but could not tell what they were doing. The suspense nearly made her scream. Miranda tested her bonds. They held. What would she do if this intruder was not her Mistress-to-be?

Within moments, a shadow was cast on the small section of wall across from her bedroom door. Then a form filled her doorway. Miranda was dumbfounded. It was Kimberley.

Miranda would never have guessed that Kimberley was interested in sex, let alone kinky sex. But there was no doubt. This was the same woman who only a few hours earlier had been answering the phone and filing papers for Richard Rogers, one of Miranda's own subordinates at work. Miranda was going to have to reassess her relationship with Kimberley very quickly!

Kimberley did not look like a secretary at the moment. She was dressed in thigh-high black patent leather boots and a matching corset. Long black gloves covered her hands and arms to above her elbows. Her shaved pussy and small tits were uncovered. She held a small riding crop in one hand, idly and lightly smacking it against the palm of the other. Her eyes locked with Miranda's eyes. Miranda could not speak for many long moments, nor shift her eyes from that hypnotic gaze. Her voice was lost somewhere in her throat as she absorbed the full impact of this sexual creature. The small ember of erotic warmth that had been growing inside her belly suddenly blossomed into flame, consuming her with a passion that astonished her.

Certainly Kimberley was an attractive woman, she was young (maybe twenty), and had a cute face and shiny black hair. At the office, she invariably dressed in smart business suits, wore her hair pulled back severely and did not engage in office small talk or gossip. Tonight, Miranda could see that her small breasts were perfectly shaped, each topped with a tight little dark red nipple that stood up like a berry. Her skin, what be seen of it, was clear and smooth and nearly as pale as marble. Miranda's greatest surprise, however, was due to the fact that she had never, in her wildest fantasies, considered another woman as an object of sexual desire. If someone had asked her this very afternoon, she would have insisted that the thought was repulsive, but here she was, responding far more deeply than she had ever responded to anyone. Her analytical mind processed the information. She wondered whether it was a previously unknown personal preference for women as sexual partners, or did it have more to do with the peculiar circumstances in which this encounter transpired. In the final analysis, it was not significant. All that really mattered was that her very being ached for fulfillment of this undeniable passion.

Kimberley approached the bed where she lay, helplessly bound and traced the curve of a breast with the riding crop. Then she spoke her first words since arriving. "You have been very obedient. I like that. It means I do not have to punish you. Remember that. Disobedience is immediately punished." She flicked the crop lightly against the flank of Miranda's hip to punctuate her statement. The slight sting focused Miranda even more firmly on Kimberley's words.

Kimberley bent close to Miranda's face. Miranda detected the subtle scent of some exotic perfume that caused her heart to race even faster. She could feel sweat on her palms. She knew her pussy must be growing quite wet, and Kimberley had barely touched her as yet.

"Have you ever made love to another woman, Miranda?" Kimberley's voice was a moist breeze tickling her ear. She shook her head weakly, unable to speak.

Beneath all this erotic stimulation, her bladder still screamed for release. "I need to pee," Miranda confessed in a small voice.

Kimberley smiled slowly. "Do you?" She seemed almost indifferent. Miranda could barely believe it.

In spite of the tense sensuality of her position, she grew angry at Kimberley. "Damn it, I need to go to the bathroom!"

Instantly she felt a burning pain across her tits. Kimberley stood above her, still pressing the rod of her riding crop into the soft flesh. The hot flash of pain turned cold, but remained painful. In her shock, Miranda had momentarily lost control and a bit of her pee had leaked. Her bladder was not emptied. Indeed, the pressure seemed as intense as ever, but there was undeniably a warm wetness around her bottom that could not be attributed to a damp pussy. Her anger subsided, slowly replaced by embarrassment as she became aware of her loss of control. She was reminded of when she was a very young girl. Her mother always spanked her when she wet her bed. Somehow she knew she was likely to experience the same kind of spanking again.

Kimberly touched her, slipping a hand over the soft flesh of her belly toward her pussy. The caress brought the ebbing erotic tension back to a boil as the young woman's fingers began to probe at the wetness around Miranda's pussy. The teasing fingers fluttered lightly over her pussy lips, parting first the hair, then the lips themselves.

Miranda could not help but arch her back to meet the invading fingers as they probed at the damp confines of her cunt, but before the fingers were actually inserted, they were withdrawn. Kimberley sniffed her fingertips briefly, then dabbed the dampness onto the end of Miranda's nose.

Miranda smelled the combination of musk and piss and felt the embarrassment again. The aroma triggered some unconscious part of her mind or body, and she found herself losing control. As it happened, time slowed. Miranda was achingly aware that she was about to lose it, that she would soon be flooding the bed with the warm fluids of her piss. She knew it and dreaded it, knowing that to do this in front of Kimberley would result in no end of humiliation. She felt as if she would die when it happened, but somehow her burning erotic need was not diminished by the knowledge. In fact, for some reason she could not comprehend, the impending humiliation only added fire to her sexual craving. As the first droplets of piss escaped her, the heat of a looming orgasm caused a deep flush to cover her body. The indignity of her uncontrolled pissing mixed deliciously with the throbbing urgency of the climax that grew inside her.