The first meeting
Sarah pondered her own name. She used to know what it meant. Something kind, something caring. She'd looked it up when she was about 12. She'd been hurt since then, had gotten very tough. Impatient. She liked trap men and cut them to the core.
She was a flaming red head with a temper and a lack of patience to match.
These would do her no good now.
The deal was 10pm sharp. She was to be ready and staring straight ahead at that exact time. Very specific.
Chesterfields, a table out in the open, a white low cut dress and heels, red hair up, framed in a wound classical braid. The exact bra and panties in the instructions were soooo expensive! She was to have 2 Bombay Sapphire martinis in the traditional glasses and a half dozen oysters, all cold and crisp. She was to have taken one tiny sip of hers, just enough to leave a Cupid's bow from her fire and ice lipstick on the rim, then she was to stare straight ahead until he sat down and told her otherwise.
It was 10:30. There was condensation all over the Martinis and the silver plate which held the melted ice and waterlogged oysters. She was furious. She was a predator, and liked to size up a room, but she had accepted the deal, and the deal was to keep looking forward. She hated people who were late. The urge to throw down a fifty, grind her napkin on the floor and noisily click her way out across the marble floor was seething from her heels, right through her orange haloed womanhood and singeing tips of her nose and breasts.
A small pain near the hairline at the back of her neck startled her. She jerked her head around a quarter turn before she caught herself.
"That will cost you Sarah,"
Her lips parted, she said nothing. The instructions read that it would be very clear when she was 'permitted' to speak.
"I must say, up until now you did fairly well. You do know I saw you steal a look at your watch twice, once at 10:05 and again at 10:21. The instructions clearly read, no matter what you will look straight ahead, neither left nor right, and a watch was not specified"
She felt him loop a pinch of her hair around his finger and yank. It was painful, but she did not respond.
"You actually handled that quite well Sara. I was just about to tell you you failed. I was just about to leave. I am a very busy man Sara, too busy to waste my time training.... Well what would you say you are Sara?"
The written instructions had made it clear what she was to refer to herself as, provided her breasts were not mentioned, she was to refer to herself as....
"I'm a inflamed cunt sir.'
"Louder."
"I'M A BLOATED AND INFLAMED CUNT SIR!"
She kept looking forward, she could hear the hushes of conversations and scoots of chair legs of at neighboring tables.
"Waiter, Oh Waiter, I need you now" he said much too loudly. The young man in the smart uniform rushed up.
"Do you recall when madam ordered this mess?"
"Well sir, what I remember is she said it was to be on the table just before 10."
She could actually hear him roll his eyes.
"I owe you and this establishment an apology, she was told explicitly over and over I could not be here before 10:30, but as usual the little girl has made a cluster of it! We need new drinks and oysters at once!"
Here he lifted plate of oysters and jerked back on it so that a wave of cold water went 'splat' on the white material covering her breasts, the pink lace of the over-priced underwire booster bra appeared in in the stain, as did her nipples. No lace there.
"Now look at the mess you've made! Well blot her son, blot her!
The waiter gave him one questioning look before grabbing the cloth napkin out of her lap and pushing it down over and over into the firm pillows of her breasts. The pink of the bra the instructions had specified, a very expensive one, continued to materialize through the white of the dress as did the shafts of her freezing nipples. The bra was left those quiet exposed.
Sara was endowed. She had been barely able to fit her tits in the bra. They were now pushed up for all to see. The dabbing of the napkin only made it more vivid.
She was livid. She wanted to rise up and spit in his face, slap him silly and threaten him.
She did nothing but try to will her nipples down.
Finally the waiter left her breast alone and gathered up the plates as one of his associates whisked away the drinks and a third billowed a wave of cold air across her freezing aureolas by whipping down a new table cloth. The apologies of the maitre d' filled the air. Her date kept putting the blame back on her and demanding she pay for both servings. Finally there was silence of a sort. He was seated across from her now, commanding dark hair grayed at the temples with an impossibly young ruddy face. He hissed through clenched teeth:
"Call the old guy with the big shoulders and tell him to leave. Don't look puzzled, he's here to watch you is he not. Tell him to leave."
She picked up her iPhone and whispered into it. Her date took the phone and turned it off.
"No give me the Gitterbug."
How had he known? She handed over her back up phone, already feeling naked, and went for a sip of martini.
"I did not say you could drink. Leave you purse here and go to the lady's room, when you come back you will be wearing 3 things, heels, dress and choker, got it? Throw everything else away. Hurry!"
Three minutes latter she was back in the chair with stale make-up, the damp white cloth of the dress rough on her nipples and the breeze from the floor making her little halo of pubes flutter under the skirt.
"Ok, why should I take you on as my submissive?"
