Chapter 3: A Favor for My Pet
"Baby," Marketa said, "Remember that little thing we did in Paris? My friend is intrigued, she wants to try it...." The words hung in the air.
"And?" I replied.
"Will you do her the favor?"
"Does she know who I am, that it was me?" I asked.
"No. All I told her was that it was an 'old friend' who indulged my curiosity. I think what got her attention was how liberating I told her it felt. I may have mentioned you to her once but I do not think I ever told you about her," she explained.
"Then please do," I said. Marketa went on to tell me all about Carol.
"Ok," I agreed, "but you realize anything goes?"
"Of course," Marketa replied with a smirk, "besides, its not like we are exclusive...."
I continued, "... and only under certain conditions- I dictate the terms, the when, where and how. She is to never know who I am and will never ask. Tell her I'll send a note through you two days in advance with the details."
"Thanks Baby, she really wants to try this," Marketa said a glean of appreciation in her eye, "and I appreciate you doing this too..."
"How much?" I had to ask.
Without a word, my pet sank to her knees before me.....
I waited a few weeks before selecting the date. Then I sent the note. I was sure Carol had been nervously waiting for my signal- Marketa had been religiously prodding me, hinting around, asking if I knew when. It was as if Carol was anxious and Marketa was her agent provocateur. I was regretting my decision. Silent patience is what I wanted. It was not what I was experiencing.
At the appointed time I arrived at the urban colonial style brick house I had rented for the weekend. Marketa let me in the front door and without a word pointed to the back door. I passed down the long hall way and existed into a brick walled courtyard. It was early autumn and the sun was setting, casting shadows while it's rays highlighted the last remnants of eye popping flowers surrounding the base of a three tiered water fountain in the center of the court. Small pebbles covering the yard crunched beneath my feet and announced my solitary presence.
I came to the side door of the detached garage and put the key into the old lock. I turned the knob and as I pushed it open, the hinges creaked, announcing my entrance. I stood at the base of a wooden staircase leading to an artist's loft. I closed and locked the door, slowly ascended the steps, each one issuing a dull thud as my feet came down.
Arriving at the top landing, I stood and looked around. In the center of the room Carol sat in a chair as instructed- blindfolded, hands in her lap, knees and ankles together as she compliantly waited for me. She had perfectly followed my directions- silk blouse, skirt, very light stockings and red high heels. I could immediately tell she was from Marketa's social circle- high end fashion which revealed membership in a conservative, upper crust echelon of society. Why she was here was beyond me but I was going to find out.
The chair was positioned on a rug in the middle of the rectangular room. The ceiling was slanted on both sides giving the room a sense of cozy seclusion. The loft was sparsely decorated. At one end was a desk against the wall under a window overlooking some woods and a distant pond. On the other end was a couch below another window, a coffee table, a couple of chairs, a book shelf and a glass case containing vintage liquors. I had prepared the room earlier in the day, intentionally leaving a bottle of scented oil and a crop on the chair. Now they were placed on the floor next to Carol.
I walked around her without stating a word, each step on the oak floor being the only sound in the dimly sunlit room. She felt my gaze. I sensed her nervous tension. I stood next to her looking down in contemplation, testing her patience. She fidgeted her fingers waiting for me to speak.
"Are you nervous?" I began.
"Yes," she softly admitted.
"What is your name?" I asked.
"Carol," she replied.
"You have a last name?"
"Carol Broussard," she nervously answered.
I did not intend to assuage her concerns, "I am the one you asked Marketa to send. You come here of your own choosing, yes?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied.
"The blindfold shall remain on at all times. You are to never know what I look like, who I am, even after we are done today. What you want me to do is totally consensual. That means if you want me to stop at any time, you need to tell me the safe word. Marketa did tell you to pick one?"
"Paris," Carol stated.
"Paris' it is. If you say it, I will immediately halt what I am doing. If you protest by stating 'no' or 'stop' I will not oblige you and will consider it a form of false protest designed to heighten the experience. If I ask you for consent to do something, you may conditionally or unconditionally give or deny it. Tonight you are completely submissive to me. That means I have your absolute trust. Do not be embarrassed to use the safe word, I assure you, I will not be disappointed.... Oh yes, one last item. You must be completely open and honest with me. Everything that happens or is said tonight, I will keep completely confidential. I anticipate Marketa will ask me about what transpired. I will tell her nothing. If you choose, you may disclose to her. Stand up," I commanded.
Carol complied and waited for further direction. Without warning, I began unbuttoning her blouse. I saw goosebumps rise on her skin as the reality of the moment struck. Beneath she wore no bra. I removed the shirt revealing her bosoms and rosettes. I stepped behind her and unfastened her skirt, letting it drop to the floor around her ankles. I helped her step out of it and lightly tossed it across the room out of reach. Adorned as instructed she stood attentive and silent.
I let her stand for a while in silence, wondering what I was going to do next. I walked around her in observation- she stood about five foot six in heels, her hair was light sandy brown, tightly curled and reaching to her shoulders. Her midsection was narrow and her hips flared out a bit more than proportion would have dictated. Her ass was slightly bubbled and properly accentuated by the tight white garters running across her rounds. Her thighs were slightly more than average size and her calves were muscular and well shaped.
I stepped forward and without warning pulled her panties down between her thighs to reveal her privates. She swallowed hard realizing her exposure. Below she was covered with matching sandy brown hair, giving her a soft, delicate appearance.
"Bend over, feet and knees together," I instructed, placing the chair before her and guiding her hands to the seat for support. I picked up the crop and struck the seat of the chair by her hands, making a sudden loud sound which caused her to jump. I figured that like Marketa, she was in her late forties.
