Sometimes when she's away, he imagines what it would be like to be hopelessly, helplessly, at her command. He leafs through the dirty clothes basket, finds a pair of her used knickers, opens them up and holds them to his mouth and nose, inhaling the smell of her, the stale smell of her cunt, the aroma of ass.
She doesn't like anything kinky, so he imagines her bringing home one of her work mates. Another Asian woman --skin sisters-- attractive but unknown, to give the orders for her. But that's for another time.
This time its just her. She's dressed in her work clothes, layers of black and lace, tights and boots, neat and sexy. He kisses her exposed upper breast. Knows from the purr she likes it. Does she have any idea how much she turns him on?
This time, she does. Tells him, more. He bends again, places his lips against her flesh. Soft, warm, dry kisses. She reaches down and rubs across the bulge in his jeans with the flat of her palm. Feels its hardness. Knows he wants her. Knows suddenly what to do.
Do exactly as I tell you, she says. His stomach knots. Of course, of course. Whatever you want, whatever you say. Go on kissing me then, she says, while I just...
She rubs again, once, twice, a little squeeze. Then moves her fingers to his belt buckle, pulls, lifts and loosens. Then the button. Her fingers are at his flies, easing down the zip. Suddenly he is open to her.
His attention is down there, on her fingers, wanting. But she takes her hand away, lifts his chin with her finger, looks into his eyes. Youre hard, she says. For me? Of course. For what may happen? Of course. Are you sure you want this? Oh god, yes.
Still looking into his eyes, she moves her hand back to his waistband, tugs downwards. The jeans are down around his knees. Using her foot, she presses them down to his ankles. With her finger tip, she traces the tip of his cock through his boxers. Already there is a small circular dark stain. His cock rears up through the material. With her fingertips, she reaches lower, underneath his balls, takes a tiny pinch of flesh. And squeezes, short but hard. A hard pinch.
He jumps. She smiles. Let me look at you, she says. Walk to the centre of the room. Like this? Yes, like that. Your jeans around your ankles. Let me see. That's good. Good boy. Stand still. Now turn and bend over. I want to see your behind.
He does as he's told. He can sense her moving towards him, towards his exposed ass. He can't see her, but he feels her closeness. Long seconds tick by. Then, a spidery touch of fingers trailing lightly across his underwear, tight stretched across his ass. More seconds.
Then suddenly, firm fingertips pinch the waistband of his pants and yank them down. His bottom is bare, but in front, his pants are only half down, his cock sticks out, perpendicular, purple. He feels like a naughty schoolboy.
She is standing beside him now, leaning forward and sideways, seeking his lips. One soft hand is on his behind, the other she curls around the head of his cock, squeezing tight and pinching his bunched foreskin, till it burns nicely. She kisses him slowly, circles her hand over his bare buttocks, trailing one finger along the crevice till it rests dainty as a petal on his puckered asshole.
Is this how you like it?
Yes. Oh yes, he says. But more. Please, more. Use me. Abuse me. I want to be yours completely. To be your plaything. Your slut.
Her tongue explores deeper in his mouth. He is standing, bent over, jeans around ankles, pants around his thighs, craning his head upwards to meet her mouth, but he can feel her breath coming heavily. She tightens her grip on his cock. Her finger circles his anus, digging deeper.
You are mine, she says.
******
This time, there are two of them. She's brought Preeti home. He's met her, once, briefly. A party, at their home. He talked to her, admiring her as she stood next to her tall, handsome husband. Catching her eyes, and then casting his down, noticing her trendy, expensive, sexy suede boots.
He knew she was bringing Preeti home with her. He got an email telling him to get himself ready. This evening, she wrote, I am really going to make you mine. And there's no better way of showing that than by sharing you. I'm going to make you my plaything. And I'm bringing someone home to help me play with you.
She's never seen him dressed up in her clothes before, but she knows he does it sometimes. He's told her it excites him, even when he's alone. Imagining her looking at him, her flimsy lacy underwear totally inadequate to contain his engorged cock and heavily hanging balls. Seeing in her imagined eyes a sliver of a sneer, an excited contempt, the knowledge that it gives her control. That he needs to be controlled.
She knows. And this evening she's going for broke. Put on something of mine underneath your jeans, she wrote in her email. Something from the second drawer down. Shower first. Really thoroughly. Wait for us upstairs.
Downstairs, he hears the key turn in the front door. Her familiar voice in the hall, another unknown one answering her.
Come down, she calls.
He feels so awkward, so embarrassed, that he's almost lost his erection. The sensation is all in the knot in his stomach. He's reluctant to show himself.
Come down, now! A note of asperity.
He forces himself to the top of the stairs, and over the precipice.
They are in the front room. Ah there you are, she says, kissing him lightly on the cheek. This is Preeti. Say hello.
Hello, Preeti.
He looks towards her. She's taller than his wife. Short dark hair, gamine style, gold stud in her nose. Short black leather skirt. She's smiling, but she doesn't exactly reply, just holds out her right hand, palm downwards, to be kissed. He moves to her, takes her hand lightly and bows her head down to kiss it. As he does so, she lifts her other hand and presses it, lightly but firmly, on the top of his head. Locking him, neck bent, head lowered, over her hand.
Then she speaks. Not Preeta. His love, his wife.
We are going to share you tonight. You are going to serve us. You must do as you are told without hesitation. Otherwise you will be punished. Preeti will probably do that. She's got dogs, and a horse. She's used to animals. So she knows what to do.
He feels the hand resting on his head press down slightly more heavily.
If this is not what you want, she goes on, say so now, and we'll have a drink and a laugh before Preeti goes home. If this is what you want, you may turn Preeta's hand over and kiss her palm.
He's never wanted anything more. Head still bent over, he gently rotates Preet's small, delicate hand 180 degrees. As he inhales, the warm scent of skin fills his nostrils. Slowly, moistly, he draws his lips together and presses them against the flesh of her palm. Kisses it.
His wife is the first to speak. So that's it, then.
There is an unfamiliar laugh. It must be hers. The hand pressing down on his head grabs a handful of hair, pulls. Quite hard. Pulls his head up, so that he is now looking directly into Preeti's eyes. She looks straight at him. But when she speaks, she is addressing her skin-sister.
What shall we call him? And what do you think he should call us?
She ponders. Then speaks.
He already told me what he wants to be. My slut. Our slut. So maybe that's how we should address him. I don't know what he should call us, though. What do sluts call their mistresses?
"Mistress", probably. Although since you say he wants to be treated like a girl, maybe he should call us master.
No, that'll sound too silly. Mistress will do, I suppose. Do you hear, slut?
He can't quite trust himself to speak, not yet.
Do you hear? A slight note of menace. The fingers entwined in his hair give it a sharp tug.
Yes, he says, his strangled voice sounding strange to his ears. Yes... mistress. Mistresses.
Better, she says. Talking of wanting to be treated like a girl, Preeti, did I mention to you that I told the slut to wash himself and put on some of my underwear? Would you like to see?
Go on, then.
You tell him. He needs to get used to doing what you say.
