Diary of a Lesbian Love Slave

My name is Sam, and I'm a lesbian love slave. It's a different life than most girls my age are leading -- I'm nineteen and a half now -- but it suits me. All my needs are taken care of and I have a purpose in life: to serve my Mistress, who is the whole world to me.

My duties are pretty straightforward: I cook and clean and tend to the garden. On weekdays when my Mistress gets home from work she expects to find me naked, except for the collar that I always wear in the house, with a martini in hand for Her. She is very old-fashioned that way. Most days she has me go down on Her as she sips Her cocktail, which she says relaxes Her at the end of a stressful day.

I feel like this is my privilege, as I believe that my Mistress's pussy is the most delicious in the world. She likes to share me with her friends, and she has a lot of friends, so I've tasted quite a few in my time; and Hers is the best. I'd lick it all day and all night if she'd let me.

But most evenings after an orgasm or two she's ready for dinner. I was not much of a cook when I came to live with Her, but I've learned thanks to Her patience and discipline.

And when I say "discipline," I mean just that. I get spanked a lot. I don't mind -- truth be told, I like it. When I get punished I get really turned on, and then I usually get laid, and that's when I come the hardest. The firm touch of my Mistress's hand, followed by Her pussy on my face, that's my idea of heaven. And if she happens to lean down and stick Her tongue into me, as she often does, I feel like the luckiest girl alive.

Sometimes if I go a few days without a spanking I'll mess something up on purpose just to get one. I think my Mistress knows I do this but what's she going to do, punish me by not punishing me? Not fuck me afterwards? If she doesn't -- a very rare occurrence -- I know it drives her just as crazy as it does me.

I guess I should describe myself. I'm about 5-foot-5 with long, wavy copper-red hair and emerald-green eyes. People tell me that I have a pretty face, but for most of my life I've tended to focus on its flaws. My Mistress tells me I'm beautiful, though, and how could she be wrong?

I have a slim build and my boobs are solid C-cups. My Mistress says that my best asset is my ass -- it's the only part of me that's a little plump, and it does seem to attract attention. I often catch guys checking it out on the street, which I sort of enjoy, knowing that they have no chance with me whatsoever.

I've known I was gay since I was very young, and started fooling around with girls in high school. I had a few casual girlfriends but always lost interest in them after a little while. Looking back now, I know why: They were just girls. It was only when I met my Mistress, and had my first experience with a real woman, that I understood what I had been missing.

It was the summer after graduation. I had just turned 18 a couple months before and had no idea what I was going to do with my life. I'd thought about college, but I was never much of a student. I'm not dumb, at least I don't think so; I just couldn't be bothered to study much. On the other hand, if I was going to work, I had no clue what I wanted to do. I gave myself the summer to think things over.

Looking for a way to make a few dollars, I answered an ad on Craigslist from someone in my neighborhood looking for gardening help. Little did I know that my life would change completely as a result.

2.

I was about to tell you the story of how we first met, but then my Mistress came into the room and I had to close the browser window. I don't think she'd want me to be writing all this down, and she certainly wouldn't want me to share it with other people. She's very serious about privacy; her co-workers, for instance, know next to nothing about her personal life. They may have a vague sense that she's a lesbian, but they certainly don't know that she lives with a 19-year-old personal slave girl.

Maybe next time I'm in need of a spanking I'll let her "catch" me writing. As long as I keep her name out of it, I don't think she'll be too, too mad. It's a wonderful feeling of freedom to know that, even if you make mistakes, at worst you'll be punished and then forgiven. The only way I could really screw things up with my Mistress would be to openly and willfully disobey her, and I can't even imagine doing that.

Anyway -- it was early on a glorious summer day when I first walked the few blocks from my aunt and uncle's place, where I was living at the time, to the house where I'm writing this now. In one way of looking at things, it was not so long ago, but it seems like another lifetime -- I was such a different person then.

I had been staying with my aunt and uncle since my mom moved away to take a job in another state six months before -- I wanted to stay and finish school, and my mom was supportive. She was always supportive, if not always super-present; she had worked hard to support us since my dad split on her when I was little.

The house was at the end of a cul-de-sac and hidden from the road by a fence and a curtain of trees. Empty lots on either end separated it from the neighbors, making it quite secluded and private. I unlatched the front gate, as I had been instructed, and made my way to the front door.

I was surprised when the woman who is now my Mistress answered the door. I had expected I'd be working for an old lady. But this woman was in her early to mid-thirties and strikingly beautiful; I felt tongue-tied and awkward. I may be romanticizing, but it seems to me that I immediately knew I was in the presence of a truly exceptional person.

She looked surprised to see me too. I think she had assumed from my name that I was a boy.

"Hi," I said when I was finally able to form words. "I'm Sam." Nobody calls me Samantha -- except my mother, and now my Mistress, when I misbehave.

She introduced herself and walked me around to the back of the house to show me what needed to be done. The garden was enormous and lush but had been neglected; it was chaotic, overgrown, and choked with weeds. "As you can see, I had grand ambitions," she said. "But my work has been very hectic and I haven't had the time to keep it up." She looked me up and down appraisingly, taking Her way about it in a way that would have offended me if she were a man. Was she gauging my physical strength, or was there something more to it? I felt my nipples swell a little, but I was wearing a big loose T-shirt.

"I'm sure you'll whip it into shape in no time," she said. "Text me if you need anything." With that she spun on Her heel and was gone, and I got to it.

Never in my life have I worked as hard as I did that day. Even after spending only a few minutes with Her, I felt a burning desire to please Her. At the end of the day, when she favored me with a smile and complimented my work while handing me a wad of cash, I was the happiest girl in the world.

I was back at it bright and early the next morning, this time in my shortest, tightest cutoffs and skimpiest halter top. The first day I had dressed for comfort; this time I wanted to be noticed.

Later on my Mistress told me that even on the first day, she had spent a considerable amount of time surreptitiously watching me from an upstairs window. On the second day, "I didn't get a damn thing done all day," she says.

More than once on both days I had felt like there were eyes on me. I looked up at the house now and then, but I couldn't see anything; it was too bright outside and too dim inside. Sometimes when I imagine Her standing in the window on those days watching me, thinking what she'd like to do to me, it gives me a little thrill. By now she's done them all, and then some; but I don't think she'll ever run out of ideas.

By the time the sun started to set that Sunday, I had the garden and yard looking like a million bucks. My employer was happy; when she reviewed my work, nodded, and said "Good girl, Sam," I felt my heart race. There was just something about Her that made me crave and delight in Her approval.

When she asked me if I would be willing to come back every weekend to do upkeep, I was practically panting like a puppy, I was so excited. Here was this fantastically magnetic personality with beauty to match, asking me to become a part of Her life; I couldn't say yes fast enough.

You may have noticed by now that I haven't been describing my Mistress's appearance. That's on purpose; partly for privacy -- just in case anyone she works with is reading this -- and partly just to be mysterious. I wonder, from what I've said, how do you picture Her? I'd love to hear.

3.

By this point you're probably saying, come on, Sam, when are you going to get to the good parts? Well, it didn't take long after that for things to get interesting.

All I thought about all week was going back to Her house. Several times I walked in that direction and thought about walking past, but chickened out, afraid that she might see me and think I was some sort of stalker.

That Friday night I hardly slept at all. I felt like something exciting was about to happen. And it did.

It was extremely hot that Saturday and I decided to just go ahead and wear a bikini. That's reasonable to work in on a hot day, right? I put on a big floppy hat and walked over, feeling happy but with a nervous flutter in my stomach.

Sadly there was no one home. I found a note taped to the door: "Sam - at the office all day." At first I thought about just leaving and coming back the next day -- I could say that it had been too hot to work, which it pretty much was. But then I thought, what if she was really expecting to have the work done today and was disappointed? That just wouldn't do.

So I worked slowly and took lots of breaks, trying to stretch out what was really a few hours' work into a full day. By the late afternoon I was just about finished and was pulling weeds in the far corner of the garden -- listening to music, bopping along, sweaty but contented -- when suddenly I turned and saw Her watching me.

I wondered how long she'd been standing there. Something in Her posture suggested it had been a while. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses and Her expression was unreadable. "Jesus, Sam," she said, and for a moment I was worried I'd done something wrong. "It's a thousand degrees out here. Come have a drink."

With that she turned and started for the house, knowing that I'd follow. My poor heart was beating a mile a minute -- I'd never actually been inside before -- as we entered the air-conditioned kitchen.

The sudden change in temperature had caused my nipples to turn rock-hard, and I felt Her eyes flicker across them as she handed me a beer from the fridge. That made me blush and feel even more self-conscious. For a moment I thought I was going to faint. I took a big swig from the beer, thinking it would calm my nerves, but it didn't. I could have sworn that the pounding of my heart was echoing through the quiet room.

She had pulled off Her sunglasses and I found myself just staring into those luminous, probing eyes, wondering what they wanted from me. There was a long moment of awkward silence. (Or at least it was awkward for me. I don't think my Mistress has ever felt awkward in Her life.) When I picture the expression on Her face in that moment, I think that she knew exactly what she wanted, and knew that she was going to get it. She was just savoring a little anticipation first.

And then we were kissing. She wrapped Her arms around me and now I felt the good kind of faint, leaning into Her body, feeling Her warmth against my exposed, goosepimply skin.

Now she took me by the arm and led me to the living room, which was a little warmer than the kitchen. I was putty in Her hands as she untied my bikini top and let it fall to the floor. She cupped my boobs and pinched my nipples, which were now so stiff it was a little painful. This sensation -- the combination of pleasure and pain -- was one I would come to know well.

But when she slid the bottom half of the bathing suit down over my hips, Her expression suddenly changed to a frown. At the time I was shaving my pubes -- all the girls in my school had; you got funny looks in the locker room if you had hair Down There.

Shaking Her head ruefully, my Mistress -- I think I can say that I already belonged to her at this point -- told me that it was a crime against nature for a beautiful redhead like me to shave her bush, and ordered me to stop doing it immediately. Since then she has taken charge of my pubic hair, personally trimming and maintaining it. I now have a healthy thatch of reddish-brown curls which my Mistress considers Hers -- along with the rest of me, of course.

I was mortified to have displeased Her and didn't know what to say. But I didn't have to say anything. Next thing I knew I was on the couch, splayed out over Her lap, being spanked with an open hand.

I had never been spanked in my life before. My dad was never around and my mom didn't believe in corporal punishment. At first my reaction was pure shock -- I couldn't believe that it was actually happening. But as my Mistress's firm hand came down repeatedly on one butt cheek, then the other, I was surprised to find my pussy wetter than it had ever been.

I was gushing so much that I could tell my juices were dripping onto my Mistress's lap. I was embarrassed but also unbelievably turned on. And even more so when, after about a dozen blows on each cheek, my Mistress's hand moved down between my legs and I felt two fingers slide inside me.

Worked up as I was at that moment, my Mistress's skilled hand had me coming almost immediately. It was without question the strongest orgasm of my life up to that point. If the deal hadn't been sealed already, it certainly was after that: I would do anything for this woman.

I looked up my Mistress wide-eyed, in awe of the way she had taken control of my body and made it feel so good. A wicked smile curled the side of Her mouth and she said, "Well, aren't you an easy little thing?"

She pushed the fingers that had been inside me into my mouth, and I happily licked my own juices from them until they were good and clean. Then my Mistress stood me up, took me by the hand, and led me to Her bedroom.