We'd spoken for so long without meeting that it was incredibly odd to have such specific and naughty images of a relative stranger. It threw common etiquette out the window. In meeting Heather, the point that worried me the most was the manners. How intimate is appropriate? A folder of her in every imaginable pose and posture—full tits, luscious ass, dripping pussy, strong legs—rested on my hard drive. She'd performed for me in ways that only a prize sub could, acts of hair-curling hedonism, and I worried about propriety.
As many of those entering the current technological climate can attest, online and real-life experiences were wildly different things. We'd begun talking a few years ago, after a random fluke of a connection. A basic typo of the instant messenger variety. After discovering several key shared hobbies, most falling under the umbrella of "Masturbatory," we'd begun playing and continued to do so up until now.
Both bi, both happy to play switch in any power games, she usually submitted to me, in the odd times she found herself in dire need of orgasm and without the aid of her Mistress and girlfriend, Emma. Emma, long experienced with the scene, though currently only in private practice, encouraged our playing online, felt that it "keeps Heather out of trouble." She'd been gently supportive of our meeting in person, understanding the slight fear-of-strangers baggage that Heather and I both carried from previous bad patches, thinking that both of us would benefit from the positive presence of a sane, kinky, amusing friend in our lives.
When Heather finally decided it was time to meet, we both found ourselves somewhat panicked, not ever truly expecting it to happen. Before scooting out the door for dinner, I checked my email one last time, half expecting her to back out, faking some last minute emergency. Instead, I found something from Emma.
Molly—I'm so disappointed that work keeps me from joining you two for dinner, but it seems fitting that the two of you get to know each other a bit first before I jump into the mix. I think it's good for her to meet someone new in the scene, spreading her wings and other clichés, but she (like you, I'm quite certain) is nervous. Therefore, I'm imposing one clear, unbreakable rule: You may not touch each other in any way until I order you to do so. There is to be no attempts at finding a loophole. Until ordered by me, specifically and in person, to touch, there are to be no hugs hello, no flirty hand brushes, and I would even think twice about an air kiss of any kind. If either of you hope to remain in my good graces, you will wait. Heather is fully aware of this rule, as well, which seems to have calmed her a bit, enough that dinner and drinks shouldn't be too challenging, at the very least. Have fun and behave—Emma
She was right, of course, and it calmed me to no end to know that the pressure of the body was now removed. She wouldn't be touching me, I wouldn't be touching her, and it was one less thing to worry about. I was thankful for the intervention of the dominant, lending a reassuring presence to things.
Until now.
I hadn't realized that, after years of exclusively text-based interaction, I genuinely didn't expect Heather to be real. I expected that we'd never really meet, and that if, by chance, we were to meet, we'd find we didn't like each other, or we had no chemistry, or it would get messy. It never occurred to me that we'd meet, hit it off, be crazy attracted, and continue on, happily ever after. We've had a fantastic time, laughing at the same dumb jokes, singing along with the same songs from the piano bar, hanging out amicably.
It was a dream of a meeting, and I couldn't get my fucking hands on her. What the fuck, man!?
Her phone buzzed a text from Emma, who faked a headache to skip out early on what she less-than-affectionately called "The Bob Loblaw Awards." She told me that Emma had suggested we head back to their place, since things were going well, and that we'd see about playing a little, if everyone was comfortable.
Walking into the living room, I wasn't exactly sure what I expected to see. Emma standing in head-to-toe leather with a whip or naked on the couch with a martini or something, but instead, we were met at the door by a woman clearly just getting off work after a late night, slightly disheveled and distracted, but comfortable in her home, and all the more alluring for it. She led us in, gesturing for us to sit on the couch, the two of us making me think of two teenagers caught out after curfew and were having to answer for it.
"So," she began, leaning against the wall to the kitchen, looking down at us as we sat quietly, hands folded in laps, "Did you two behave and keep your greedy little paws off one another?"
I look to Heather to answer because I don't know if there's a right way to answer. I was expecting to come over and really just test out the dynamic a bit, not to immediately begin playing, but I was happy to see where this heading.
Heather doesn't hesitate, proud in her compliance, "No, Mistress. We just talked and had dinner."
"What good girls you are. I think you deserve a treat for that. Molly, you're the guest. Which would like to see first, Heather's tits or her pussy?"
I wanted her tits because they are glorious, and getting the shirt and bra off her would have removed the bulk of her clothing, her skirt working hard just to keep her ass covered, but the idea of her standing there, bare from the waist down and so easily accessed was just too tempting.
I spoke to Emma for the first time, pointedly, "I want her pussy now." It doesn't get more pointed than that, really.
I was rewarded with a grin from both of them and an order from Emma, "You heard her, slut. Let's see it." Not really paying close attention to the cut of her top earlier, I hadn't realized that it was somewhat cropped, stopping right at her waist. With her skirt gone, she was completely naked to the floor having kicked off her sandals when we came in. She stood close to me, without even a shirttail to hide behind, her visibly wet lips at eye level. "Turn around; show us that sweet ass. Lovely."
Emma looked over at me, I thought seeking agreement, so I answered, "Oh, absolutely. She's gorgeous." I could feel my mouth actually starting to water at having her so close when Emma cleared her throat and got my attention. When I was able to tear my eyes away from the dripping little peach in front of me, I glanced at her, where she waited, expectation filling her face. She clearly wanted something, and I was missing it.
"I don't recall the term 'slut' being reserved exclusively for Heather. You're not the only one being rewarded here. You chose pussy, so pussy it is. She gets yours, too. Now take it off or I cut it off."
I'd worn a long broomstick skirt, narrow at the waist, wide and sweeping at the floor. Admittedly, I wore it because it appeals to me in a very kinky way, being made from enough fabric that it could easily conceal an entire adult beneath its folds. The idea of tucking Heather up underneath me and hiding her away while she busily lapped me to one orgasm after another, whether it happened tonight or not, was too tempting to ignore. As a result, I went minimalist with the top, wearing a baby tee, also hitting me at my waist and covering nothing once the skirt was puddled around my ankles.
