My buddy's eyes crawled hungrily across my slave's virtually naked chest. I'd seen them flirting at the last party, seen his reaction when she'd sat upon his lap, seen where his hands had gone. I'd spoken with her about it afterwards, and I knew that she had as much sexual interest in him as he in her. Hence why I'd arranged this little dinner party, a motivation that she had initially expected; when I'd chosen the completely sheer off-shoulder black lace top for her wardrobe on this night, combined with her shortest form-fitting black miniskirt, an item which didn't fully descend below the bottom curve of her buttocks, she'd known without a doubt what I had planned this evening. Her bare ass had been quite effectively exposed as we'd watched her finish dinner preparations that evening and serve us, and her creamy breasts with their lovingly molded and painstakingly shaped, jutting raspberry nipples had been swaying before his eyes beneath their barely-existent covering all evening. The food had done little to sate his growing hunger, and the wine that followed dinner had loosened his inhibitions to the point that he no longer even tried to conceal his appreciative gaze.
Now, why would I arrange an evening such as this one was destined to be, you might ask? You see, there are few pleasures as rarefied as requiring one's lover to go utterly against her own grain. That submission which is truly savored is an unwilling submission, for anyone can submit to something that they independently desire to do. It is in requiring someone to do that which they would never choose that one tastes the most delicate flavors of submission. My slave was an utterly modest woman, which allowed me to derive great joy from forcing her to dress in a shamelessly exhibitionistic manner in public at all times, allowing me to feast constantly upon the spectacle of her struggle to cope with her near-nakedness. Similarly, she was sexually conservative and would never dream of what she knew was in store for her on this evening, never dream of being reduced to a slutty sexual dessert, a rutting party-favor. Hence, she would be a sexual service slut on this night, and that knowledge had dripped from her eyes and run down her inner thigh all evening. (She might not like what I had in mind, but the depth of her submission reduced her to a puddle.)
I was relishing the act of stretching the evening out, allowing the anticipation to maintain the flush of her cheeks; nervous anticipation is a special spice. It gave her time to think about what might lie ahead, gave the difficulty of submission the opportunity to grow, allowed her struggle to deepen, allowed me to drink the process from her eyes as dinner was slowly completed and we adjourned to the living room, full wine glasses in our hands.
I directed her to lead the way as we traversed the length of the apartment, with Bob right behind her. It was what was known as a "railroad", meaning that the rooms were laid out linearly, one after the other, with a continuous corridor from one end to the other. I'd instructed her not to adjust her skirt unless told to do so by me, which meant that it was riding very high on her ample ass by this time, pretty much to her expansive hips, leaving her white, shining ass largely uncovered and swaying in front of him as we made the transit. I knew that he couldn't help but to be responding to the sight, with plenty of time to look.
On our arrival in the living room, I directed Bob and my slave to take a seat on the couch while I put some blues on the computer. My slave, much as she was dreading what she knew to be coming, knew her place well and motioned him to sit at one end, taking her place in the middle of the couch. As I turned from the computer, I noted with satisfaction that her clinging stretch miniskirt had pretty much continued its inexorable march towards her waist when she had sat down, leaving her shaved ivory loins and ruby cleft clearly visible between her parted legs (I require her to keep her knees no less than 12 inches apart at all times when seated). Her jutting, mist-covered raspberry nipples and the glistening cream descending from that crimson cleft and sparkling down her inner thighs betrayed her, showing me that, though her mind may be struggling with the events of this night, her body was responding as expected.
I relished the small-talk which followed as we drank a couple more glasses apiece of wine and talked about the music, dinner, politics, and the myriad subjects of normalcy as we sat within that prurient tableau. Jean struggled for normalcy as Bob became increasingly comfortable, allowing his eyes to roam with less and less restraint upon her virtually-naked form. The large, thick couch/floor-pillows at either end of our futon made the fit for three people rather intimate, and the spread of Jean's knees made it even more so, especially as I made no effort to conserve space at my end; it wasn't long before his hand was firmly ensconced upon the thigh which pressed against him as we talked. I stretched the moment, drinking in the flush of my slave's cheeks and the palpable, anxious anticipation that was radiating from her face and her loins, spreading in a dark puddle upon the fabric beneath her.
Bob's eyes followed me as I changed the CD, and I could tell that he was looking for guidance. I smiled to myself as I lingered over the act, taking more time than really necessary to decide upon the CD I'd had planned all the time, pausing twice to let my smiling gaze flow across my slave's exposed body and the hand upon its thigh for Bob's benefit. No reason to be shy, my gaze said. It, I decided as the blues began to ripple anew across the room, was time.
As I returned to my seat, I instructed my slave, my wife, to fetch and open for us another bottle of wine from the kitchen. I knew without looking, as I watched her depart, that Bob's eyes were pulled as if by a magnet by her bouncing buttocks as she went upon her way, her skirt having completed its migration and quite pleasingly bunched about her waist by now. "How're you doing?" I asked, turning to him with a smile.
"Just fine," was his somewhat embarrassed reply. I could tell that he wasn't sure what the appropriate response might be.
"I do love that outfit and what it does," I said, breaking the ice explicitly for the first time. "It rides up so nicely."
There was a tangible release of tension as he replied. "I definitely approve. It's very sexy. You don't mind ...?"
