For what felt like hours, I was left with only the sound of my breath to keep me company. Lacking even vision - which had been stolen from me by the soft embrace of padded leather set over my eyes - any sense of time was diluted, extended, made utterly meaningless. I could hardly recall the details of the chamber I'd been brought to, so lost was I in the dark embrace. I could remember only that it was lit with the flickering light of candles and nothing else; that it was large; and that the furniture awaiting its occupants ranged from a leather-padded X-frame to a leather-padded sawhorse, with a bed covered in shining latex bedding as its centerpiece.
Of course, I could also remember the gleam of chains - a gleam I was reminded of on those seemingly rare occasions when the clink of metal links intruded upon my otherwise monotonous existence, made only of the slow inhalations and exhalations of my breath and the slower beat of my heart. I was reminded of that gleam, too, by the pleasant ache in my shoulders and along the length of my arms, where they extended above my head. My wrists were gripped in leather of similar make to the blindfold around my eyes, and the cuffs themselves were chained - to what, I knew not; I knew only that it must be something in turn attached to the ceiling, to hold me so perfectly upright, so perfectly straight.
Whether it had in truth been hours or mere minutes, after what I could only later recall as an eternity the blindfold was stripped away - and with its departure, I was granted sight once more. But it was not the flickering candlelight against wood, steel, and leather to which my eyes were directed by reflex. Rather, it was a reflection: of myself - but it was not me, too. Gone was the woman with whom I was most intimately familiar, the secretary who wore flirty fabric blouses and skirts; replacing her was the Slut. The Whore.
The Whore - I could hardly look at the reflection staring back at me and consider her to be me - fit her name perfectly. My eyes began at her - my - hair in the mirror, long and shining black waves that spilled down over slender shoulders, that framed the pale face of a woman made into something painfully erotic; her eyes, a deep blue, were lined in thick black and her lashes were made long with mascara, all of it shadowed in a deep violet so that even a glance could promise worlds of pleasure. But it was her - my, I had to remind myself over and over - mouth that truly promised sin and delight: full lips were made fuller by black lining and red, red, red lipstick so that her mouth begged to be used, to be smeared with all that lipstick, for the perfect makeup to be ruined in an orgy of ecstasy.
But it was not just my face - not her, now, for I could not delude myself into thinking I was looking any longer at anyone other than myself - that screamed Whore, that begged to be used. Standing as straight as I was, forced to my toes by the chains holding my wrists, the long line of my body was a taut testament to desire. I wore only lingerie - but none of it offered the soft seduction inherent to silk or satin; instead, I had been dressed in the shining and polished smoothness of latex. First, there was the collar, a devilishly simple strip of latex that clasped at the back of my neck, and which held at its front the gleam of a steel ring and the sort of small bell found on any pet's collar. Had I been naked except for that, I would have been an image of pure erotic desire, of innocence perfected into sin; but it was merely the beginning.
The rest of my body was nearly naked, and where it was not naked it was dressed with the sole purpose of highlighting the nudity that left the rest of my pale form vulnerable. My arms, hung still above me and stretched to their lengths, gleamed with the shine of polished black latex - a choice of material and color that would be matched by all that my Mistress had dressed me in. The gloves coated me from fingertips to biceps, leaving my shoulders bare. My breasts - perhaps a bit more than a handful each and made immune to the envy of gravity by the mix of money and talent - were left bare, capped with already achingly hard pink nipples and the shine of a steel ring through each. As if the surgeon's talent hadn't been trusted, the next bit of latex I wore presented itself in the form of an underbust corset that cupped beneath each breast like a jealous lover, buckled into place by four separate straps at my back that had been cinched tight.
Lovely as my Whore body was above the waist, below it was only more so. In the way my breasts remained bare, so too did my pussy - no, that is not what I was staring at, shaved bare and already glistening with the damp of arousal. It was not my pussy that invited thoughts of licking the dew from puffed petals: it was my cunt. My Whore cunt. The thought almost made me groan all on its own, and it was all I could do to remain upright and not sag against the chains. Lower, then, I had to look - and lower, I found stockings to match my gloves, gleaming black latex that encased the length of my legs and my feet.
"I trust you like what you see, mm?" The low and sultry tone of my Mistress's voice, purred, came from somewhere in the room - but precisely where, I could not begin to pinpoint either due to my own focus on the image of myself staring back at me or some trick of acoustics. But where the source stood or sat mattered little, for that purr sent shivers along my spine and forced my breath to catch. When I answered after a moment, my voice could not hope to match that tone - my words came out breathless in comparison, each syllable dripping with wanton need: "I do."
Mere seconds after that affirmation, I cried out and my back arched. It was reflexive, a thoughtless attempt to retreat from the abrupt and harsh sting of... something. At that moment, I wasn't sure whether it was a crop, a whip, or a cane; I knew only that it hurt where it struck against my upper back, and that the sting was itself exquisite. For a moment after, I could only pant and work to wet my suddenly dry mouth enough to speak without croaking, so that I could add the necessary title I had forgotten, "Mistress."
As my breath slowly returned to normal and as my focus retreated from the sting in my back, I could hear her move. Slow and methodic, her steps carried her around the room, around me. Against the hard floor, the sound of her heels - there could be no question that she wore stilettos, both because I knew my Mistress well and because the sound itself offered no other possibility - was an exclamation point, a statement that denied any attempt to refute the simple truth of the room: she was in command. She was the Mistress.
Which left me as her toy, her plaything, her submissive - her slave. Or yes, her Whore. Erotic as the sight of my reflection was and exquisite as the sound of her steps were, it was the constant reminder of my place and of what I was that most ensured that my cunt was slick for her. I was her Whore - and I reveled in that fact eagerly.
"What do you see, when you look in the mirror?" The question retained that low and sultry purr, as if sound could caress along skin the way a hand might, or could kiss at an ear the way lips would if closer. I looked again at the mirror, stared again at the wanton image of slutty and whorish desire that stared back at me, and nearly whimpered. What I saw was a wanton and debased woman, a woman made into an object of sex and lust, stripped of autonomy and the modern trappings of individuality. What I saw was a Whore.
And so I told her as much. "A whore, Mistress. Your Whore." Again, my words came breathless, as the very act of admitting the obvious stole me of my ability to breathe normally and robbed me more fully even than the chains still holding my wrists of any ability to pretend I was free to move, free to go, free to deny that my pussy veritably ached with every hard click of her heels as she circled me, unseen in the shadows of the room.
When she made herself seen, as with all things, my Mistress did so with perfect effect. She was behind me, and so I glimpsed the shine of black latex within the reflection of the mirror beyond my own. It was a boot, for my eyes could not help but be lowered with the weight of my burgeoning submission. Still, I gave her her due and lifted my gaze along the image at my back, tracing the lines of those approaching boots, lingering at the silken lace of a stocking's end where the boots ended at her mid thigh. Up further, I dragged my eyes, to take note of the skirt shining like an oil slick where it clung to the flare of her hips and her upper thighs.
What my Mistress wore above the skirt, I caught only a glimpse of: something white and not latex, but I saw no more of it before she had pressed her body to my back. At last, I moaned softly and pressed back against her, knowing by feel alone that I had been right, that whatever she wore over her upper body was neither latex nor leather but something softer. Then it was her face that stole my attention, hovering as it seemed to just above my shoulder, with her lips just beside my ear.
Her face was a revelation. Aphrodite would have been jealous of that which I looked upon in the mirror, while any porn star would have sold her soul to look the same. While I began my perusal of my own Whore's reflection with my hair, I could not help but begin at my Mistress's mouth. If my own black-lined and blood-red painted lips held the promise of sin's fulfillment, my Mistress's held the threat of the same - a threat surely any man or woman would accept readily, but a threat all the same. It was a threat that she would consume you, would devour you; and more than that, that you would delight in it until you could delight no more. Those full, red lips were curved in the smallest of smiles, and I was struck by the simple realization that while my mouth begged use, her's demanded it.
It took a monumental effort to look higher, and it was made more difficult still by the way she spoke nearly against my ear, so that those lips - that mouth - brushed the shell of my ear as the words purred forth and poured into my consciousness. "I trust, dear Whore, I meet with approval." Her eyes, I watched stroke over my reflected image. She possessed me with that gaze, reflected though it was; had it not been reflect, I shudder to think what that gaze may have done to me - it would have undone me utterly, left me hanging by the chains. As it was, I could look into those sultry brown eyes for only so long, enhanced as they were by dark eyeliner and mascara and shadow.
