Crumbling Memories

Chapter 1: Bus Ride

Strange, how difficult it is to trace the origins of decay. When did the cracks first appear, silent and imperceptible, slowly expanding till they threatened to swallow everything whole? For me, it was an elusive moment, slipping away the moment I thought I had grasped it. An ephemeral nothingness that somehow transformed into everything.

Here I stand, in front of the mirror, my 29-year-old tired reflection a cruel reminder of a simpler time. I slip into a dress, eerily similar to the one I wore ten years ago. That was the beginning, wasn't it? A chance encounter on a crowded bus, a silent admission of a bond deeper than any I had experienced before. My heart beats in my chest, an echo of the past making its presence felt now.

The woman in the mirror is me and yet isn't. I recognize the familiar lines of my face, the way my hair falls in a cascade of golden curls, but the eyes... there's something different in the way they look back at me. They hold a sadness, a profound melancholy that has no place there. They are the eyes of a woman who has lost something precious, something irreplaceable. I blink, hoping to erase that somber gaze, but it stubbornly remains.

The dress clings to my body, accentuating the contours of my figure. It's a dress that once sparked joy, a dress that witnessed a time of laughter and warmth. But now, it feels like a costume, a desperate attempt to recreate a past that slips away, bit by bit, memory by memory.

In the next room, I hear her, my Vicky. The mere sound of her stirs something within me. I love everything about her -- her beautiful brown hair, the intense gaze of her brown eyes, her athletic figure, and most of all, her commanding presence. She's the love of my life, my Mistress, the other half of my soul. But lately, she's become distant, a shadow of the vibrant woman I fell in love with.

As I get ready, my mind replays the conversation from last night. The words are commonplace, our usual banter, but there's something different in her tone. It's the silence that follows, the way her eyes seem lost, that makes my heart clench with fear.

How does one cope with the realization that the person they love, their entire world, is fading away? That they are slowly becoming a stranger, their essence slipping through your fingers like sand?

Ready at last, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the day ahead. For all the challenges that lie in our path, for all the unspoken words, for all the hidden fears. With a final glance at my reflection, I step out of the room, ready to face whatever comes.

Let the past take its course, let the memories guide the present. Ten years ago, on a crowded bus, we met...

***

The city bus, sweltering under the midsummer sun, fills with passengers. I'm just 19, a hopeful sprite in a sea of weary faces. My eyes fall upon a woman in her mid-thirties. She's a picture of beauty, seated at the back, her attire a casual ensemble of a plaid shirt and a long dark skirt. Her relaxed demeanor contrasts the general discomfort in the heat-filled bus. A sensation tugs at me, an invisible thread drawing me closer.

In my mid-length, lavender and white summer dress, I stand out. A lollipop nestled in my mouth, a meager solace from the sweltering heat. As I step further into the bus, her gaze falls on me. Appraising, predatory. Her eyes, rich with an intense allure, make my heart skip a beat.

Suddenly, she's on her feet, moving toward me. She navigates her way through the press of bodies with ease. Her proximity is a magnetic field -- pulling, compelling. She leans in close, her whisper sending shivers down my spine, "Prepare yourself, slut."

Her words reverberate in my mind, a lightning strike that leaves me rooted. An audacious command, a claim -- one that bewilders yet excites me. I feel my body responding, a strange current of heat coursing through my veins.

Her gaze wanders over me, eyes lingering on my cleavage peeking from the dress, nipples stiffening under her gaze. Anticipation and trepidation swirl within me as her hand grazes my buttocks. A gasp escapes my lips, her touch igniting a spark within.

Her hands find me. Exploring, claiming, leaving trails of fire on my skin. Pleasure wells up, a moan threatening to spill. But her stern voice slices through the haze, "Don't you dare!"

The mundane bus ride transforms into an intoxicating game. She, the puppeteer, and I, a puppet dancing to her tune. I yield to her command, a willing captive under her gaze. Unbeknownst to me, this was the initiation of a dance we would continue for a decade.

Caught in the thrall of her piercing gaze and bold actions, I stand as a timid lamb awaiting her next move. Her interest in my ass momentarily fades, her lustful eyes set on a new prize -- my breasts. Aggressively, she kneads them, teasing my nipples through the fabric of my lavender dress. It's a brash intrusion, one that sends jolts of pleasure straight to my core.

A sharp gasp escapes me as her other hand lifts the front of my dress, trespassing into my drenched white panties. There's no privacy, no secret place to hide in the bustling city bus, yet no one notices the explicit game being played in their midst. I dart my eyes around, my face a blush of shame and arousal, praying no one sees us.

She toys with my throbbing pussy, leaving me writhing in my place. And then, as if not content with the havoc she's wreaked, she tugs my panties down, closer to my trembling knees. My breath catches as she uses her foot to push my panties all the way to my ankles. Fear and excitement twine in my belly as I watch my dirtied panties crumpled around my ankles, stained by my arousal and the sole of her shoe.

Before I can regain my senses, she plunges her fingers into me. One, then two, filling me while her thumb grinds against my clit. The authority, the dominance in her touch sends me spiraling into ecstasy. I lean forward, no longer able to stand, yet she holds me up, denying me any respite.

Her other hand drifts back to my ass, leaving my nipples bereft of her attention. My heart lurches as I remember the buttplug I inserted this morning. A private kink I never thought would be discovered. Yet, she finds it. A quick smirk graces her lips as her fingers trace the crystal end of my little secret.

Caught off guard, I yelp as she ruthlessly pulls out the plug, melding a spike of pain with the relentless pleasure she's extracting from my pussy. Her eyes gleam with wicked delight as she holds the buttplug up, my shameful secret now openly flaunted.

She looks at my mouth, lips tightly wrapped around the lollipop stick, her icy voice cutting through the haze of my desire. "So, you're quite the slut, aren't you? And you love to suck, it seems?" The words, more of an accusation than a question, ring in my ears. Despite the humiliation, I can't help but respond to her, my body betraying me, wanting her, needing her, succumbing to her every whim.

As if not satisfied with the debauchery she's imposed, she yanks the lollipop from my mouth, leaving my sweet lips slightly parted and aching from the loss. A whine slips past them, and her command follows swiftly, "Open your mouth wider, bitch."

Compelled by her tone, I comply, only for my compliance to be rewarded by the taste of my own ass. She forces the just-removed buttplug into my mouth, causing an instinctual mix of revulsion and arousal to bubble within me. The bitter-sweet taste is as humbling as it is erotic. I'm debased in front of these people who are unaware of the dirty spectacle happening under their noses, while she continues to toy with my pussy.

Her three fingers operate like a well-oiled machine, thrusting into me rhythmically. Desperate to keep my moans in check, I taste the warmth of the buttplug with my tongue. The faint musky flavor and the relentless pleasure from her fingers trigger a powerful orgasm, the most intense I've ever experienced.

My legs buckle beneath me, but she's there, holding me upright like a marionette, her hand rooted inside my dripping cunt. I shudder, gasping for breath, every nerve ending alight with ecstasy. After she lets me recover, she whirls me around to face her.

A wave of fear washes over me, heightening my awareness of my helpless state. Pantyless, my dress hiked up, one nipple peeking out from the collar, an anal plug replacing a pacifier in my mouth that I'm still sucking on and lapping at in a futile attempt to alleviate my discomfort. My submission to her is absolute. She has a wicked power over me that I can't resist. With a pang of fear, I meet her gaze, searching for a clue, a hint of her next move. Her eyes twinkle with mischievous intent, her lips curl into a predatory smirk.

Her words, laced with an intoxicating dominance, whisper in my ear, "It's your turn, bitch." The surrounding hum of the bus, the occasional coughing, the bumping on the uneven road, everything blends into the background, drowned out by the throbbing of my heart. Shame and desire war inside me, but there's no denying the tantalizing prospect of reciprocating her actions. My hesitation dissipates, replaced by a heady anticipation.

Her command reverberates in my hazy, post-orgasmic mind. She carefully extracts the plug from my mouth, her piercing brown eyes hypnotizing me. My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I take the saliva-slick plug from her, my hand moving almost independently. With a soft, wet pop, I reinsert the plug into its designated place, a loud moan of satisfaction slipping past my lips.

Her hands press against my shoulders, a silent order that I find myself willingly obeying. I lower myself to my knees in front of her, my dirty panties lost somewhere among the sea of passengers. My heart is pounding in my chest as I reach under her skirt and find she's gone commando today. The bus is hot, but the warmth radiating from her is even more intense...

The intoxicating mix of her sweat and desire fills my nostrils, stirring a primal need within me. Without a second thought, I press my mouth against her pussy, licking, sucking, and kissing as if it's my last day on Earth. She delicately holds my head in place through her skirt, while I greedily swallow her flowing juices, savoring the taste of her magical, divine pussy.

She can't hold back any longer, her grip on my head tightens to the point where I can barely breathe, and she climaxes, spraying onto my face, my whoreish mouth, and my dress. We're locked in the silent bliss of her orgasm for a few eternal seconds, then, finally loosening her grip, she pants, "Get up, slut."

Despite the deep shame boiling within me, arousal still grips my body like a vice. I'm a puppet under her control, a toy to play with in this public yet strangely secluded space. And as I ready myself to obey her command once again, I realize I'm trapped in a twisted paradox of humiliation and lust. But is it really a trap if I don't want to escape?

I rise, my legs shaky and unsteady, the air thick with my own intoxicating desire for her. The bewitching allure of her eyes draws me in. They're like a vortex, hypnotic and powerful, that I am desperate to immerse myself in. In a hushed, sultry voice she asks, "What's your name?" and I find myself unable to resist answering, my voice quivering with a cocktail of fear, excitement, and an intoxicating feeling of servitude, "Lisa, Mistress."

"I like that," she purrs, her voice a smooth, velvety whisper that sends shivers down my spine. "I'm Vicky." A blush creeps over my cheeks at her seductive tone. I find myself leaning closer, yearning to taste the sweet sin of her lips. I want to feel the soft pressure of her mouth against mine, to know the intimacy of her breath mingling with mine. But just as the space between us could hardly fit a coin, she pulls back, a playful smirk playing on her lips.

"You're such an obedient little slut, aren't you?" she teases, her words stirring a cocktail of shame and exhilaration within me. The honesty of her words strike me deeply. I feel my heart flutter at the candid statement, the truth of it shaking me to my core. And then, she's turning away, disappearing into the sea of people, her absence immediately felt in the empty space around me. She leaves the bus, leaving me standing there, the taste of her still on my tongue, the scent of her still in the air.

I find myself drawn to her, my submissive nature responding to her commands. It's as if she was born to rule me, and I, to follow. Her dominance isn't just intoxicating, it feels like the natural order of things, and I am just a willing pawn, forever eager to submit. There's something primal about it, something that speaks to the very core of my being. I don't just want to follow her, I need to.

My gaze flits around the bus, my discarded, damp panties somewhere trampled underfoot in the bus's opposite end, a tangible evidence of my public surrender to pleasure. The doors are still open, the inviting escape drawing me in. As I think about her words, the truth of them sinking into me, I whisper, "Yes, I'm your obedient little slut, Mistress." The submissive admission stirs within me a perverse sense of rightness, of belonging.

Feeling a newfound sense of purpose, I step down from the bus, each step echoing my total submission. It's a quiet acceptance of who I am, a docile slave following the Mistress, my Mistress, Vicky, and it feels utterly right.

***

I reach out a hand to help Vicky into the car, my touch soft, as if she were made of glass. Her aloof gaze flickers towards me, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She takes my hand, settling herself into the passenger seat with a huff.

I get in behind the wheel, my hand lingering on the gear shift, the cool metal grounding me. A flicker of nostalgia washes over me, pulling me back into the past. I push the car key into the ignition and give it a turn, the engine rumbling to life.

In the driver's seat, I glance at Vicky, her face illuminated by the faint glow of the car's interior light. She's aged gracefully, her beauty only deepening over the years. The hints of silver in her hair, once a deep shade of chestnut, speak of time that has passed, of a decade that has slipped by since we first met. She'd turned 45 recently, and yet she seemed as alluring as the day I first saw her, in her prime. Her gaze, however, is far away, lost in thoughts unknown to me.

Attempting to bridge the gap, I start a conversation, talking about mundane things, like the weather or our shared love for the blues. But her responses are minimal, clipped, almost as if she's not there with me. I feel a pang of hurt, which I quickly squash down. She's just not in the mood, I tell myself.

In the rear-view mirror, the world outside looks like a distant memory, a contrast to the intimate confines of the car. In the silence, my mind wanders back to that bus ride all those years ago. The intensity of the connection we shared then feels like a stark contrast to the muted echo of it now.

I keep glancing at Vicky out of the corner of my eye, desperately trying to reignite that spark. But her impassive face, turned to the window, only adds to my unease. My heart aches for the woman who once commanded my full attention, who had taken me to heights I'd never known before.

As we pull away from the curb, a sense of longing settles over me. I remember the fire we used to have, the intense passion that had bound us together, the intoxicating thrill of our public games. Now, the flame seems to be dwindling, replaced by a cold detachment.

Strange, how difficult it is to trace the origins of decay.