We arrive at the place in a deserted warehouse district somewhere in New York, and I ring the buzzer on the big metal door of the address I've been given, itself apparently a warehouse. The chauffeur is still idling behind me I note, maybe a courtesy not to bust off until he sees the client safely within their destination. I've only a slight worry about being bundled in by a government 'snatch squad,' having used up most of my mental energy with more fun and games on disembarking at JFK. Having to explain my enforced sexual subjugation once again, I'd proactively picked out an official in order to explain my chastity troubles before I even bothered to line at immigration.
Eventually the heavy door opens and I realise just how thankful I am to see Jess. There'd been a thought in the back of my mind that she'd bail out and not be here, her moonlight flit the night before leaving me with the feeling like the rug could be pulled under my feet at any time.
Its funny seeing her in a completely different country though. She's as beautiful as she was yesterday for sure. Somehow even more statuesque, maybe from the crazy high killer heels she's wearing.
She looks happy too, at least initially; looking over my shoulder at the limo, a slight sadness creeps over her face.
I'm overcome with love enough to presumptuously take the side of her face in one hand, giving her a gentle kiss on the lips. She moves into it, reciprocating, but then shifts her mouth to whisper in my ear, "It's not too late to change your mind Patrick."
"This is what I want," I say on moving to look at her, eyes wide open in earnest.
"Best come in then," she says, almost solemn-like, as I hear grit spraying from car tyres moving behind me.
Flicking on some lights to better illuminate the place as we enter, the clack clack noise of the overhead strips serve as a precursor to the illumination of section after section of the workplace. Walking on into the space I note its mainly barren, with no expected rows of machinery or industrial equipment. There's the odd piece of furniture, odd as in what looks like a vault or horse from a school gym, never mind odd as in the sparsity of the items. There are some obvious standing lights, and cinematogarphy equipment too, as you'd expect for a video shoot. There's still not a great deal to look at though.
Turning to ask Jess for a rundown, I see she's thrown her trench coat over a chair while my back was turned to her. It's unveiled what I'm sure this time is a very short, shiny black latex dress with spaghetti hoop straps, over nylons; most likely pantyhose, judging by their dark, almost opaque look. Its completed by the shiny black high heels, the contrasting red soles indicating them as Louboutins. Her arms look long and lean in tight latex gloves almost going up to her shoulders. Standing before me, Jess statuesque with legs akimbo, my heart begins to flutter.
"Strip!" she commands, all business now; the Jess of a minute ago well and truly gone.
I don't hesitate, not even to move to the chair to stash my clothes, instead just removing each item and piling them haphazardly on the dirty floor, for I know her current mindset. Stripping off awkwardly down to my underwear, I realise just how cold it is in here.
"Pants too!" she admonishes.
I'm reticent now, not just for the cold and its implications for my not so showy 'showing' in the metallic device. The fact is, she's never actually seen me naked as such, other than my backside and maybe a fraction of penis hanging down between my legs, perhaps visible from behind when I was in the stocks.
I guess its just another level that must be reached in our ongoing relationship. On slowly pulling down my pants while she looks on before me, my head attempts to grip with this new embarrassment and subjugation.
Jess scrapes the wooden chair directly in front of me and sits down, legs crossed, hands on lap.
"On your knees slave!"
Obliging her and painfully getting down on the cold concrete floor, she eyes me up and down like a queen would a subject kneeling before her. Its an agonising spell, and I find it difficult to look at her. I'm unable to stop shivering too, a mixture of cold and nervous excitement.
There's maybe a glimmer of amusement in her face as she works her way down to my chastity devise, otherwise her poker face gives nothing away. No inclination of what she's thinking or intends her next act to be. Finally she rises from her seat and commands me to move, as she makes for what looks like an internal door.
Opening it and keeping it ajar behind her for me to follow, it leads immediately to steep carpeted stairs, maybe an upstairs office or caretakers apartment. Jess climbing the stairs ahead of me, I fixate on her legs and ass, her nylon covered lower butt cheeks fractionally peeking from under the latex hem of her dress. Her ass strains against the latex encasement, rounding out with each upwards step she takes, captivating me and enticing me onwards to whatever she has in store for me.
I was correct in that its apartment space above the warehouse. Not quite upwardly mobile style either. More of a $5 an hour caretaker kind of setup.
Moving towards me, she removes a key from within her cleavage. My eyes light up; the chastity key!
She easily unlocks my cock restraint, letting it fall on the floor, allowing my penis to grow slightly, free from its shackles.
"Time for another shower," she says. "I'll be waiting downstairs for you."
I flush slightly, wondering if I smell a bit ripe from my transatlantic flight and undoubted pre-cum seepage during my vivid wet dream.
Freshly (frantically that is) spruced and scrubbed, it's not too long before I descend the apartment's stairs and enter the warehouse area again.
Jess is fussing around the horse type thing I'd seen not so long ago, though on closer inspection I now see from its chains and clasps that its some kind of bondage device masquerading as a bench.
"Now Patrick," she says, moving towards me - "Now that you're all clean its time for us to have a little pre-game talk."
"You recall what I was saying to you yesterday regarding your lack of communication?" she asks, the curt commands that she's been issuing now replaced with a gentler tone, though still leaving no doubt as to who's in charge.
"Yes?," I say, admittedly not communicating beyond the affirmative.
"Well, Its time for you to do some talking, or shall we say begging."
My face wrinkles in confusion, my words coming out in questioning intonation, "Beggi -"
"Tell me what you want!" she interrupts - "Respectfully, as a good slave that is."
"I want to please you," I admit, in all honesty.
"And how do you want to please me slave?"
"I want to worship y - "
"Call me Mistress!" she interjects again, rapidly.
"I want to worship you Mistress. Please, I mean."
