Special thanks to kenjisato, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author. The comma conflict continues.
* * * * * * *
Sometimes I play Scrabble with Brigitte. Sometimes, she even wins. What can you do? There's an element of randomness to the game, after all, and Brigitte isn't stupid. She's transformed. There's a difference.
Brigitte's been with me for about eight years now. She'll be thirty in August. She hardly ever receives my cum anymore, but I'll readily admit she's still a gorgeous woman. She takes excellent care of herself, the house, and me. She's become quite the cook and baker. She does a little bit of cleaning every day, prioritizing it whenever I'm out of the house. I like my peace and quiet. I also enjoy cuddling with her, sucking on her breasts, and having her lick my asshole. Why, we're practically an old married couple.
It's Tuesday afternoon. I'm relaxing in my special chair in the living room. Brigitte is below me, massaging my ass and worshiping my rear hole. She's moaning in pleasure as she does so. The television is on, but I'm not really watching or listening. I'm halfway between sleeping and waking. I love sex -- straight-up fucking and cumming -- but I've also learned to savor a multitude of subtler sensual pleasures. Two of my favorites are falling asleep to, and waking up to, the feeling of someone lovingly kissing and licking my asshole. The between state I'm in right now is uniquely delightful. It's a lazy river ride upon yet another lazy river ride. The blood to my cock gently ebbs and flows. Nearly every one of my breaths is a contented sigh.
Even though I can't see Brigitte, knowing that she's beautiful enhances my own experience. The faint odor of her arousal makes my fleeting, scattered dreams that much sweeter. They're not even dreams, really. They're just flashes. If dreams are sex, then they're a tease. They can be torture if you're trying to get a good night's sleep. As an afternoon diversion, they're lovely.
Brigitte is a treasure, but most of my cum goes to Jillian. Jillian is twenty-one, a sophomore at a local university, and simply a vision. She's a creamy-skinned bottle-blonde who keeps her eyebrows dark. Ordinarily, that would be a recipe for 'crazy eyes,' but everything about Jillian is sweet and cute, including her pathology. Her dyed hair communicates an eagerness to please, and a need for validation. So, too, does her perfectly smooth and hairless body -- her pussy, especially. Her hugs are powerful, bordering on desperate. Her smile spurs inner conflict: protect, or defile?
Put side-by-side with Brigitte, she's also a bittersweet reminder that there's really no substitute for youth. I still make sure Jillian sticks to her regimen, though. The beauty of youth can yet be enhanced and accentuated.
Well, there is
one
substitute for youth, at least as far as beauty goes. If you have the mutation, then your cum -- or your juices, or your milk - can convince just about anyone that you're the most attractive person on the planet. It can do much more than that, obviously. Consider the beautiful, naked woman below me. Consider her arousal; consider her bliss.
I'm not going to tell you what I look like, or even how old I am. That would ruin the fun. Brigitte believes I'm a living Greek god -- and no, not Hephaestus, you cheeky bitch. So does Jillian. So do the unsuspecting university girls that Jillian secretly feeds my cum. They believe it before they've even seen me. They're mine before I ever speak to them or touch them. Even better, they fall under my other girls' lesser spells, too. I haven't had to hunt my own prey in years.
I hear the front door open. Though I'm two rooms away, I can already sense that Jillian's brought a friend home. I rouse to full wakefulness, and ease myself up off the chair.
"Brigitte," I say simply, and she deftly removes herself from the custom-built queening bed. She follows. There's no need for collars or leashes. I don't judge those who enjoy them, but I prefer my girls unencumbered.
Speaking of nakedness, Jillian almost is by the time Brigitte and I get to the front door. She only has her thin string bikini panties left on, and they'll be on the floor in a flash. Her friend is staring a bit, which is slowing down her own progress. I don't mind; I can hardly blame her. Jillian is beautiful. Our new friend has only removed her blouse, revealing that she isn't wearing a bra. Her short skirt, white thigh-high socks, shoes, and -- I suspect -- her panties are all still on.
The girl catches sight of Brigitte's gorgeous, naked body and gawks some more. Then she sees mine. I can't help but smile. I see the change in her hazel eyes. She knows: I'm the one. I let her stare. We have plenty of time.
"Jillian," I say, "who's our new friend?"
"This is Sarah Masters," she replies. "She's in my research methodologies course."
"Welcome to my home, Sarah," I say to the gawking girl. "My name is Warren. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Sarah wants me. Her face -- her entire body -- is an open book. She isn't shy, either. She doesn't blush; she makes no move to hide her full, dewdrop breasts. She's just unsure of the situation. I give her a warm, friendly smile. She smiles back.
"Jillian," I say, "I'll let you do the inspection, but say hello to Brigitte first."
Jillian doesn't respond; she simply walks over to Brigitte and begins 'saying hello' as a lover would. To some, "Yes, Master," never gets old. To others, it becomes background noise after a few years and a few different thralls. To me, it became a constant source of irritation. I've come to regard it as just another collar or leash. It's a prop. Arguably, it's a sign of insecurity. My thralls love me, want me, and obey me. If I want them to say something, I'll tell them to say it.
The two of them come together slowly. They communicate love and attraction with their eyes, then with their hands, and then with their mouths. They take their time. I can't help but to glance over; it's a beautiful sight. Each of them fondle a breast, tease a nipple, and gently caress a pussy while they make out with each other. As far as I'm concerned, it's how all attractive women should greet each other. When I look back at Sarah, I can see that her attention is divided. It is as it should be. In my home, there's love and desire enough to go around.
I move in close to Sarah. Her attention snaps back to me, fully. I caress her bared arms. She feels the delightful paradox of her master's first touch: relaxation and excitement, pleasure and arousal, satisfaction and yearning. I lean down; she tilts her head up. She's easily eight inches shorter than I am. I move my lips next to hers. I let her initiate. Once our lips are joined, her soft hands move towards my cock and balls. They caress them, just as she saw Jillian's and Brigitte's hands caressing each other's pussies. I give Sarah a murmur of approval while our lips are still joined. I feel her relax even more. So few words truly need to be spoken. I like being the one to break the silence, if I so choose.
Our lips drift apart, but our faces stay close together. "You're beautiful, Sarah," I tell her, and she is.
She's a short, pale, dark-haired beauty -- a wondrous blend of Irish and Jewish, if I had to guess. Her petite frame makes her C cup breasts seem massive. Her voluminous, wavy locks are mid-length; when Jillian first met her, they were short. Jillian persuaded her to grow them out. They're not quite where they need to be for a braid or a ponytail, but they'll get there. There's plenty of time.
"God, you are too," she sighs.
"Go ahead and take the rest of your clothes off," I say. I don't need to change my tone. I don't need to petulantly assert my dominance. I simply am dominant. Sarah is simply submissive to me. It's natural. It's easy. It's quiet.
I brace her while she removes her shoes. She unhooks the skirt and lets it fall. She slides down her panties next. She reveals her smooth, hairless pussy, confirming that Jillian prepared her well for our first encounter. I like all my girls bare, scalp and eyebrows aside. It gives me a special thrill to know that Sarah denuded herself because Jillian told her to. She did a great job, too -- or someone did for her. There isn't a hint of stubble. She probably went to my girl. It makes all the sense in the world to have a few in the beauty industry.
