I saw that bitch again on New Year's Eve. She went in and out of my view as the mob shuffled back and forth in a mysterious non-rhythm. Waitresses in tuxedo tops, short skirts and fishnet stockings swam through the crowd like sharks through a school of guppies, carrying champagne bottles atop ice buckets, atop black trays. Dressed in a latex mini-dress, her huge tits defying Newton's discovery, she was perched on a barstool at the local tourist trap on Ocean Drive. God, how I missed sucking those beautiful tits! With legs crossed at the knees, she dangled those really high heels from her painted toes teasingly. God, how I missed sucking those beautiful toes!
There she was, not twenty feet away from me, talking to some muscled stud. Yeah, the clinging shirt barely concealed his bulging biceps. His shoulders stretched powerfully, narrowing in a v-shape to his tapered waist and leather pants. He even chomped on a cigar, probably a Cohiba, blowing thick smoke into the night sky. He was the kind of dude who drives a Harley or a canary yellow Hummer, not a four door Honda. A manly, macho guy, right? Not if he was with her!
The woman's name was Megan. At least, that was the name on her driver's license and overworked passport. I think I even called her Megan once, though probably not after our first date. I simply called her Mistress. I have no doubt that her new stud called her Mistress, as well.
I don't call her Mistress anymore. Whether I ruined that or she did, I'm still unsure. You, the reader, should decide for yourself.
As far as I could tell, she remained completely unaware of my presence, which I took advantage of. I could spy on her in her natural element, laughing and talking, drinking and partying, dancing and flirting, seducing men easily if she chose, just by being herself. Such a gift. I ogled her for a long time that night, sipping my dark beer, ignoring my friends, lost in the memories of a dream world.
I actually lived in dream world once, for almost two years, as Mistress Megan's property. My friends had no clue about my secret life as a sex slave, thank goodness. But, all of her friends knew. Every damned detail. I mean, I had bravely taken that plunge into realizing my deepest and darkest personal fantasy; living as chattel to a demanding dominatrix. Her friends treated my fantasy life and me as a perverted joke.
Of course, her friends laughed about my enslavement, thinking it some type of cute game, especially when I served them drinks dressed in a French maid's uniform, curtsying before and after placing the glass on the table. They laughed, not thanked me for coming out of the closet with my true desires.
For instance, on her friends' birthdays, Mistress would drag me to their homes and order me to clean everything, from top to bottom, dressed in my own birthday suit. Then Mistress took my clothes and walked out the door, her friends in tow, to have a night on the town. Loud giggles could be heard from outside once the door closed. I used to dream that one day she would let me service her friends in a sexual manner. Never happened. Mistress preferred to humiliate me in front of her friends, not show off my vast sexual abilities.
Want more examples of my humiliation at Mistress Megan's feet? There was that Fourth of July morning when she took a magic marker and stenciled "BITCH" on my ass in big, thick block letters. In the afternoon, she paraded me around naked at Haulover's clothing optional beach. My new tattoo was an especially big hit among the three or four hundred men in the gay section of the beach.
Just for kicks one night, she decided to see how small she could get my dick to shrivel. She forced me to stand in front of the toilet and masturbate to three orgasms, door closed. When I emerged from the bathroom, my mistress had the ice bag waiting. After three minutes of intense cold, my penis looked like half a peanut being held up by two purple grapes. "I think I can shrink it some more," she pronounced, before unceremoniously dropping the ice bag back onto my groin. Thirty minutes later, she came back and took pictures with the digital camera. I laminated a full body print and a close up of my micro-member, back to back. She hung them from her Corvette's rearview mirror for any passenger or admirer to ridicule.
"Who's that?" A passenger might ask. "His penis is really tiny."
"Tell me about it," she'd laugh, then roll her eyes.
For all I know, those pics are still hanging there.
Mistress Megan did not even dominate me full time. Rather, she used her powers when she chose, as selectively as she desired. Like at four in the morning, when she sometimes called me at home, awakening me. Mistress was hungry, or wanted champagne, or wanted me to take out the garbage. I put on my clothes, drove the 20 minutes to her home and performed the menial tasks. Sometimes I spent the night in her bed. Sometimes on the floor. Mostly, she just pulled down my pants, rubbed my shaft until it became hard, then sent me home. I'd fuck my sheets wildly, imagining what might have been.
Saturday mornings were my heaven. I awoke at 6 am, showered and drove to Mistress' home. The key would be waiting under a rock just outside the door. I'd let myself in and read the instructions, followed by the list. The instructions indicated what I should wear, from elaborate leather harnesses and boots, to nothing at all. The list consisted of things to be cleaned, before serving her breakfast at 11 am. Over eggs benedict and just-squeezed-by-me orange juice, she would divulge our weekend plans. This was my weekly revelation, when she told me how she would torture me until her bedtime on Sunday, or how she would just ignore me. She spoke to me like a cat hovering over a trapped mouse, her smile true and wicked. I craved to hear these revelations, almost as much as living them out.
The end came one Saturday night, the culmination of an elaborate plan that backfired. Mistress had me set up some new video equipment in her bedroom. She decided that she wanted to relive, over and over again, her conquests in the bedroom by videotape. Of course, I assumed that I would be the conquered. I was only slightly embarrassed about having a video library of my submission, as it paled in comparison to some of the humiliations she put me through in the past. So I set up the equipment, kind of stumped as to why she wanted the camera ensconced on the top shelf of the closet, hidden by clothes and shoeboxes. Why not on a tripod? And why did she want the cables to run to the guest bedroom and its TV? I couldn't ask her at the time, because she had gone to the gym. And when she came home, it slipped my mind, as she sat on my face and I licked the perspiration out of her cunt. Hey, you would have done the same.
After dinner that evening and a bottle of wine, we drank another bottle of wine. Followed by just one more, though of a lesser vintage. In my less than sober state, my questions about the video gear were forgotten. Eventually, she decided we should take a shower together. So we did, laughing harder than ever, even telling jokes during this obviously sexual situation, as only people who have been there and done that together can do. I remember that we were almost equals while we bathed that night. She lathered me up and washed me down, and I did the same for her. The only difference in our statuses came when I gave her an orgasm with the shower massager, while my cock remained hard, balls full. Still laughing, she tied me down to the bed in the guestroom, securing all four limbs to the corners. I remember thinking that though she was still the leader, this night she dominated me with a smile. Gone was the strict, no-nonsense, leather disciplinarian that she morphed into when we played for long periods of time. I loved seeing this sweet side of her, eagerly obeying when she requested that I lick her to another orgasm.
Though I spent considerable time orally servicing her, the orgasm never erupted, as the bell chimed at precisely 10 PM. Her smile grew greatly, eclipsing the rest of her face, as if Santa Claus were knocking at the front door with a bag full of presents. She did not untie me. Instead, Mistress Megan placed a black penis gag in my mouth and turned on the TV, VCR and the video camera before donning a thick, white bathrobe. I assumed, because of her actions, that one of her girl friends was coming over with some half-baked scheme to degrade me once again.
My assumption was half-right. Yes, I would be subjected to a huge humiliation. But no, it was not one of her friends at the door. It was my friend Glenn.
I did not learn of this until later, though. All I heard at the time, from the conversations in the living room, were a woman's voice (my Mistress) and a man's voice. Their words flowed loud and quick, like two people nervous about what was to happen, but both knowing that something indeed would occur. They were flirting, as two teenagers would over a milkshake at the high school hangout. Or the backseat of a car on a dark, dead end road. After a while, the voices quieted down, but they remained in the living room. What were they doing, my Mistress and Mr. Anonymous? Were they kissing? Of course not, I believed then. Finally, I heard their footsteps approaching, then passing, as they entered Mistress Megan's bedroom.
Like a shock, finally I saw movement, but only on the TV screen. My mistress entered her bedroom, looking directly into the lens of the video camera, hidden where I had placed it. Then I saw Glenn's face or, rather, the side of his grinning face.
Now, my friends, I don't have to tell you that my cock had been at full mast since I came to Mistress' home early that morning, 15 hours before this moment. Serving her whims is extremely erotic and my excitement is obvious, especially in profile. My Mistress preferred my cock to be hard and my balls to be full, hairless and blue. But the shock! My cock started to wilt and I tried to scream, but the penis gag performed its job flawlessly. My screams of "you fucking bitch, what are you doing with my friend" and "you motherfucker, what are you doing with my girlfriend" came out as an agitated whimper, at best.
