Friday night, our favourite restaurant, and my husband was finally home. He dismissed the sweet trolley, ordering black coffees instead. When the waiter left, he pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and placed it on the table in front of me.
"I believe there's enough cream here to more than compensate for missing dessert."
I looked at him, then at the envelope, then back at him.
"Tell me you're not creaming yourself Holly!"
My stomach clenched. Simon's face was stern, his tone indignant. Something was dreadfully wrong. I opened the envelope. Photos, several different naked men, but I was in all the shots. My heart thumped as blood rushed to my head. I felt sick to my stomach.
"It...It's not what..." I stammered.
Simon held his hand up to silence me as the waiter returned. Neither of us spoke until he left.
"Holly, I hired a private detective. The evidence is irrefutable. You've disappointed me. I thought I gave you everything you wanted."
"Please, Simon," I said quietly, mortified that I'd been found out. Desperate that the other diners, people who knew us, wouldn't hear what was being said.
"It's not what it looks like. You're away on business so much. I miss you. These mean nothing," I pleaded, placing the photos face down on the table, shoving them away.
"Clearly they mean something," he snarled. "They prove you are an alley cat, constantly in heat."
He sat back in his chair and composed himself.
"Quite simply, you have two choices. I can divorce you or you can go to the Finishing School."
"What?"
He'd caught me off guard. I didn't know what the Finishing School was but I knew I didn't want a divorce. There was only one option. If I wanted to keep my marriage then I would have to attend this school.
Eight weeks later, a sentinel, my personal tutor, delivered me home, re-formed and enlightened, in accordance with my husband's instructions. Relieved to see Simon's Jaguar in the driveway, I rang the bell and waited. He opened the door and took my hand, drawing me inside the stately house. My heart skipped and my lust flared at the sight of him. Tall, strong, powerful, I craved his forgiveness and his touch. Weak with relief, I smiled. I was home. I was safe.
"You look well Holly," he said formally, as he bent to brush his lips across mine, then stood back to examine me.
"Let me take your coat."
His deep voice set me trembling, my nerves jagged with anticipation. I held my breath. His elegant hands reached for my shoulders, caressing them, stroking my arms, resting briefly either side of my waist, but he didn't pull me close. Then his hands moved to my breasts, circling my nipples. Instantly they stood erect, protruding through the silk sheath dress. When he pinched them, hard, gripping my nipple rings and pushing them into the delicate flesh of my areola, I cried out. I tried not to wince or utter a sound but I couldn't help it. All the while he stared impassively at my face.
"Are you horny Holly?".
"Yes," I mumbled, lowering my eyes.
"Yes what?" demanded Simon.
"Yes... Simon."
"Come, come Holly," he chided, "what were you taught?"
At the Finishing School, a secret institution, I learned to freely submit myself so I may be used in any way my masters see fit. All men are my masters but Simon is my supreme Master.
"Yes Master," I whispered.
"Louder Holly, be specific."
"Yes Master, I am very horny."
"Of course you are," he mocked, tilting my chin, staring straight at me. "You're nothing but a fuck slut, isn't that so?"
"Yes Master."
Simon nodded his satisfaction. I was jubilant. He had claimed me. I was still his.
"We're going out to dinner tonight, with a business colleague of mine," he said. "I've left out what I want you to wear.
At the School they stripped me bare - my body, my mind and my soul, exposing my carnal nature. The outfit was appropriate, given my disposition. A red and black basque with suspenders, silk stockings, a black, body hugging dress made of a flexible but expensive material and red patent high heels. There were no panties of course. My masters must have access to any of my fuck holes at all times. I applied my make-up, outlining my eyes with dark kohl, applying thick, long lashes and creating fat, luscious lips with a pencil and bright scarlet lipstick. I rouged my cheeks, my nipples and my clit.
The full-length mirror reflected a high class hooker. Is that what I was to Simon now, nothing more than a slut? Perhaps divorce might have been the better option. And yet, I looked stunning. Finally I could be what I was deep inside. Simon set me free. Not only is he the man I adore but he knows me so well; he released my inner self.
Gone was the studied appearance of a wealthy wife. Instead was a siren, with voluptuous breasts and a petite waist. My body was sculptured by perverse diet, whale-bone corsets and fiendish sexual antics. Only my short stature remained unchanged but the stiletto heels and very short hem line elongated my shapely legs.
Downstairs, in the library, Simon beckoned to me. I approached with bated breath. Wordlessly he reached down and slid his hand under my dress. He stroked the inside of my thigh until he reached my crotch, my skin tingling as he caressed my naked pussy. My clit grew more swollen, opening my sex lips further, making my fuck juices ooze out. All the while, Simon's eyes never moved from my face. I sighed with pleasure as he slowly trailed along my bikini-waxed bush, silently willing him to plunder me with his fingers. Instead he took hold of my clit ring and tugged it, viciously. I cried out in shock and pain, bewildered by his actions.
"Just checking," he said maliciously.
When he offered me a straight scotch, I knocked it back. The spitefulness in his voice frightened me. My clit throbbed from his brutal assault and yet I craved him even more. Unprepared for his vindictiveness and panicky about what might lay ahead, the scotch helped settle my nerves.
In the car, Simon told me to pull my dress up around my waist, spread my legs and play with myself. He wanted to hear me climax while he was driving
At first the leather seat felt cold against my bare bottom, but as I started to play with my clit, teasing it with my fingertips, my suppressed lust mounted. Warmth flowed through my body, tightening in my belly, hardening my nipples and making me sopping wet. I reeked of sex.
"Pull down your top," ordered Simon, "I want to see your tits."
I tugged the flexible fabric of my neckline down so that it rested beneath the fullness of my breasts. The basque revealed most of my fleshy bosom, including my newly pierced nipples. Even with the neckline in place I appeared to be spilling out of the dress.
As my climax mounted, I moaned involuntarily. Instinctively I thrust my hips forward, my fingers slipping back and forth, rubbing my nub, making me crazy to be penetrated. Lost in sexual oblivion and on the cusp of coming, Simon's left hand reached across and began fondling my breasts. His fingertips kneaded my soft, pliant flesh. He toyed with a nipple ring, rolling it between his finger and thumb, sending waves of exquisite pleasure coursing through me. Suddenly he twisted it, dispelling all euphoria, subjugating my impending climax. Excruciating pain overwhelmed me. I cried out in anguish and then whimpered in frustration as my climax receded, dulling to a harsh, pulsating throb.
"We're almost there," he said calmly, as if nothing had transpired. "Tidy yourself."
Obediently I pulled my dress back into place, covering my body as best I could. Appalled at having displayed my ravenous sexuality, I was crushed that my husband no longer seemed to fancy me. Pulling the sun visor down, I checked my make-up as the car drew up outside a plush city hotel and a valet waited to park it.
