Disclaimer: This is a fictional continuation of my story "Holiday Fireworks". If you are under 18 or offended by descriptions of sexual interactions between women, please go elsewhere. If not, read on and feel free to email me with comments.
It has been a year since my discovery of and conversion to submissive lesbianism. Alex and Mia turned out to be cousins and as far as I knew now lived in London. I was bitterly angry in the days after the 'fireworks', angry that upon awakening to my truer self the woman whom I lusted to serve disappeared. I guess I really did think I was someone special, and maybe I was, maybe I was. If she returned I would willingly drop to my knees in service, willingly offer my lovely body to her use and abuse.
Gradually my anger subsided and the memories of those 4 days sustained me. My artwork grew freer and bolder. I myself grew paradoxically more assertive and therefore successful at the office. Although I kept my private life private word got around that I didn't care much for men. I thought I detected a gleam of envy in the eyes of the unhappily married women at our firm (and I didn't know ONE who was happily married!).
I also continued to take ballet, secretly hoping for a new member of the class. My friend Jennifer was now separated and one night over a drink after class I confided to her my experiences with Alex and Mia. Her jaw dropped and I could see she was aroused and it felt good to arouse her. I spared no detail – the slaps, the wax, the collar, Mia's clit ring, my double-pleasure, my flogging.... I even told Jen about swallowing Alex's golden fluid in the morning as a gesture of obeisance.
"I didn't know I would ever do such things," I said, "but now they seem so natural. I love the female body."
Jen told me of her marital problems. Her husband was 30, very much into his business and sports. Not bad in bed, she said, but nothing special either.
"You know, I'm 25, and I can't believe this is all there is to sex," she lamented.
"Well," I replied, "it doesn't have to be."
There was a pause. I broke the awkward silence.
"Do you think less of me for what I've done? Do you think I'm a hopeless perv? Be honest, Jen."
"No, Sonya, no.... I think – I just think you're lucky, lucky and....and beautiful." She blushed.
Jen was a brunette – long dark lustrous hair and dark eyes, olive skin. At 5'6" she was a little taller than I. Her body was very athletic, very strong. If she had taken dance seriously in her youth she might have become a talent. Her breasts were very full.
"Thanks, Jen," I said, and added demurely, "but not as beautiful as you."
I meant it. My face is intelligent and attractive, but by no means classically pretty. And my breasts... my poor small breasts. They are exquisitively sensitive and I love them and wouldn't trade them for anything bigger, but they're small and get hardly a glance. Jen was gorgeous in a sultry Latin way. Her Irish hubby didn't strike me as the sensually appreciative type.
"I'd love to paint you," I said suddenly.
She smiled innocently. "I'd be flattered."
We arranged for her to sit for me the next Saturday afternoon.
Jen arrived and she was obviously tipsy. She was all smiles and flirts and to tell the truth I was put off. She stripped almost immediately and assumed several peculiar poses and I became annoyed.
"C'mon, Sonya, what do you want me to do?" she cried. "I know how you lesbos are, you'll do anything for the taste and feel of a REAL woman!" She laughed.
"Jen," I said softly.
"Don't 'Jen' me," she replied.
I could smell the alcohol on her breath. It made me sick.
"Jen, come on, lie down for me over here."
I led her to my sofa and stretched her naked body out and by the time I had fetched my sketch pad she was fast asleep.
I took advantage of her motionlessness to do a credible rendering of her lovely form. Her muscular thighs and back were evident. I did wonder about what kind of lover she would be, and it struck me that her husband must have avoided her for some reason. Yes, she was pushy, full of herself, and not sensual at all when she behaved that way. It was as if she were afraid of the vulnerable aspect of sensuality, the giving in to desire, the giving up of oneself to one's lover of the moment. I seemed to see all this in the hour or so I spent with my pencil. I recalled too that as a dancer she was hard – good, competent, but too hard. And when she first drew my attention to Alex I remembered such a flood of lust for Alex, but none at all for her, which struck me as odd. Now I think I know why.
Then I had an idea.
When Jen awoke on my sofa she discovered quickly that her wrists were bound together over her head. I had also secured them to the rear leg of the sofa with my scarves, so she had little play. And while she was sleeping I carefully tied a long silk scarf to each ankle, gingerly fastening one ankle to the front leg of the sofa, so that it dangled a bit off the sofa's edge, and the other to the rear leg. This leg I had lifted to rest atop the sofa's back cushions, with the result that her legs were spread wide apart to expose her precious little womanly cunt.
I dressed myself in a pair of white lace panties and bra, very skimpy, with nothing else. I sat across from her, watching, sipping on a soda.
Jen squirmed. "Hey," she called, "what's going on?" As she realized the extent of her helplessness she cursed me. "Hey Sonya, what the fuck is this? Stop playing this fucking game."
"Sssshhh," I admonished.
"Fuck you! – get these fucking things off me, bitch!" Her voice grew louder as I approached.
"Jen, ssshhhh.... The neighbors will hear," I said softly.
"That's fucking right!" she shouted.
