Author's Note: Thanks for the feedback to Part One. Part Two and much of Part Three was completed several months ago, but were both on a USB drive that failed completely. It has been reconstructed from memory.
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I woke up the next morning without any of the usual aches and pains, and no trace of a hangover. That was weird enough on its own. Rubbing my eyes, I slowly remembered I hadn't gone to bed alone last night, but the other side of the bed was empty. I lived two miles off the nearest paved road and at least fifteen miles, depending on your choice of back road, from downtown Cambridge, Mississippi. Where the fuck had Michelle gotten off to? But first I stumbled to the bathroom for that all-important first piss of the day.
Moving out toward the kitchen, I was sniffing the addictive scent of bacon cooking. My brain still wasn't stringing one and one together. Give me a fucking break, I am not a morning person despite years of Uncle Sam trying to force me. As I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I caught the delectable sight of Michelle, still wearing her heavy leather collar, wrist and ankle cuffs, and in her leather garter belt and stockings from last night's fun, standing at my stove assembling BLTs atop her five-inch fuck-me spikes. Damn, she'd slept in those shoes. We'd fallen asleep and I'd forgotten about those straps that padlocked the shoe into the ankle cuffs. Ooopsie.
"Good morning, dear!" I loudly announced. She swiveled rather well in her heels. She did a sort of half-curtsey and opened the refrigerator, handing me a cold can of Mountain Dew. Yes, that horrible green shit will kill me one of these days, but the Cuban cigars might too. Fuck off.
"Good morning, sir. I couldn't decide whether to wake you up with a long blowjob or serve you breakfast in bed."
"Looks to me like you struck out at both", I teased.
She gave her best sex-kitten pout. Her hair had that unkept look that studio hairdressers had worked hard to give Bridgette Bardot on her best days. "I was going to go for both. Fix breakfast, then come in and suck you dry before feeding you. I think I was craving a nice shot of tasty cum with my breakfast, if Master would be so kind as to fuck my mouth...."
It's been years, and I still want to know how she came up with that stuff. When aroused, and I rarely knew her not to be, her sweet Southern drawl was a nonstop flow of the most incredible filth. She really loved to talk dirty, and get talked to dirty. My mind wandered for a bit and snapped back at "take your nice hard cock in my ass sometime."
"Michelle, dear, I want to fuck your ass until you screamed from the joy of it, but it's a set of muscles that needs to be worked on slowly before it can take much abuse and be much fun And speaking of abuse, your feet must be killing you."
She looked down at her shiny black patent heels. "Actually I hadn't noticed. I've been walking all over the house trying to get used to them. Falling over isn't sexy. I want to look sexy in these things. If I'm going to be a bondage whore, I have to look good at it." She did her best supermodel strut across the kitchen and back to the counter, and blood started flowing south, making my dick twitch in anticipation of fucking her again soon. She finished dishing up our breakfasts and carried the plates into the living room. Eating at my kitchen table was out of the question, as it was overflowed with a Dillon progressive reloading rig to supply the amount of .45 ammo I went through every spring and summer.
She had set the plates down on the coffee table and had bent over the arm of the couch. Her hands were placed deliberately so as to maximize the elevation of her truly porn star quality ass as she wiggled her hips teasingly. She looked back over her shoulder invitingly, and loudly cleared her throat before blowing me a kiss.
