A Day in the Life

I decide that somehow I will manage (and the fact that I sometimes like to be caught in the dressing room fingering my pussy hasnothingto do with that, I assure you), and walk past several hat stores and a place selling sunglasses into the place which is my goal: Fredericks.

I know the gal behind the counter, casually. She doesn't really turn me on, or I'm sure I would have slept with her already, but she recognizes me and smiles a greeting. She's a bit on the boyish side, and—I'll be honest: if I want boyish, I'll wait for Master to get home and give it to me hard. I like pretty, femmy girls with long hair—the longer, the better. Sometimes I have fun rubbing the hair against my tits while being sucked off.Mmmm...

Concentrate, girl!I admonish myself as my pussy starts to warm at the thought, but it's probably no use. I grab a couple of random articles off the shelves and head directly for the changing room, because if I don't get off again soon I'm never going to be able to think clearly enough to evenremembermy size.

I close and lock the door, throw the lingerie bits to the floor and sit on the changing bench.

Staring into the mirror, I tease myself by spreading my legs—only a bit at first— and slowly stroke my legs from heel to thigh, sensuously but almost innocently. But watching myself touching, rubbing, my red nails lightly (and oh-so-carefully) scratching their way up the thin fabric, I grow impatient with this foreplay. I brace my heels on the wall at either side of the mirror, and look at my hands: one holding up my skirt so my view is unobstructed, the other parting my cunt lips and starting to masturbate. I love the aroma and the flavor of my own pussy, but right now I'm really admiring the look. I've "abused" her several times today, and she's all engorged with reds and pinks and purples and shiny with tasty juice. I only keep my fingers inside for a moment, thrusting gently, to coat my fingers in delicious lubricant before I abandon the inner hole and start to massage the hot button that is my clit. I'm biting back moans right now, though I imagine my panting is probably equally audible, and I close my eyes, savoring the tickles as I make circles with my delicate flesh, held loosely between two fingers.

I build, and build, and I know I'm damned close to soaking my skirt again, and I open my eyes and see my face: reddened, heavy breathing, and utterly sensual. In sheer narcissistic fervor, this pushes my libido to the breaking point and my pulse pounds in my head (and in my pussy;yes, my pussy!) as I push my heels into the wall with force enough to dent it. I am coming, and to hell with decorum. I'm not screaming, exactly, but it can't be any secret what's going on in this dressing room.

I coast downward, slowly, my feet dropping back to the floor, and in my recovery start to examine the hastily-grabbed lingerie I brought in with me. Most of it is not my size and can be ignored completely.

The merrywidow would fit me, but the garters are thin, weak things. Which would work out fine if I confined my wear to the bedroom, but I'm a practical gal: those plastic clips will break too easily, and the elastic in the straps will stretch to uselessness after about four wears.Sigh.Hosiery's not the only thing I have to buy online (although the reasons differ). Anything with useful garters on it is pretty much impossible to find; the stupid manufacturers design for how cute the model will look in something lacy and delicate, not for pragmatism. And while I like the cute models as much as anyone, I feel that I'm wasting cash if I can't wear my fuck-me clothes to the grocery store in addition to while spread-eagled on my bed. I suppose it's my old life talking—when you have lived hand-to-mouth for years, as I did when I was younger, you show disdain for things which are poorly thought out.

At any rate, there's not much useful here, and my blush is fading... but, lo! and behold, there's a black silk thong, and it's just my size! I try it on to make sure, but there's really no question. I am always happy when the world conspires to make things work out for me; Master laughs at my beliefs in fate and destiny, but I think he's just unimaginative, that way. (He's quite imaginative in all the important ways, so I have no complaints.) I remove the panties and open the dressing room door.

I've gathered quite a crowd, I fear, and I get a mixed reaction from the members. Some of them (all of the men, and most of the women) are smiling at me, some in amusement, others in admiration. I flash them a smile of my own. Others are looking at me with disdain, their faces uglied with frowns. I give those women an even bigger smile, and a wink, as I walk to the register. The butch chick behind the counter is staring at me with new interest as she rings up the thong, and I note that she is surreptitiously smelling her fingers after she handles the panties. I throw away the bag she offers, opting to carry the thong home barehanded. It's fun to see people's reactions when they see what I'm holding.

The woman behind me in line, one of the less pleasant of the crowd earlier, mutters, "Filthy whore!" under her breath, and it gives me a delightful little charge to hear one of my Master's other little nicknames for me, even voiced by this bitch. I make sure to lick my lips at her, as I turn away from the counter, and hear more exclamations of the "Well, I've never!" sort behind me as I go back into the mall.

It's good she's in Fredericks,I think to myself,because that woman desperately needs to get laid.

It's late, and Stu has left, now. He commented on how tasty the picante sauce was, and Master agreed, telling him, "Nikki adds her own special spices to the mix, don't you, my dear?"

I was ecstatic that Master had noticed. I had used nearly the entire jar marked (in handwritten letters) "Slut-Cunt Juice" that I'd accumulated for weeks and stored in the lower shelf of the fridge. The rest I'd drunk myself, straight, after I had put the saucepot on the burner. I know I love the taste, and I hope Stu did, too. I can tell from the bulge in Master's pants that he knows what I have done—he has no doubt noticed the empty jar in the sink, or perhaps noticed my breath when we kissed earlier. The possibility that Stu may have smelled me on my breath when I gave him a brief hug goodbye makes me tingle. A lot.

"Did you have a nice day, dear?" Master says as he leans back on the couch, flipping off his shoes with his toes at the back of his heels.

"I did! I fucked myself..." It takes me a while to count, but I give him the number: "Seven times. At least, that I remember. Elaine had me under for over an hour, and usually I don't remember that part too well."

He frowns. "I don't like that very much, my dear. A slut should be rewarded for fingering herself to orgasm, and it's not fair of her to let you forget. Perhaps we need to find another shrink."

"Okay," I say—dejectedly, for some reason. I brighten again. "But I can at least go back to lick her cunt from time to time? Pretty please?"

Master looks at me skeptically. "Hmmm... perhaps. I'm not sure what she's been putting in your head lately, and you seem a bit too insistent. We'll see."

I want to allay his suspicions, so I agree with him wholeheartedly. He looks satisfied... mostly. Not to worry, I'll make him see that there is nothing wrong with me serving Elaine as her personal cuntwhore. After all, it isn't like she can steal me away from him! You can't be hypnotized into doing something you don't really want to do, deep down.Mmmm... down.As in "going down". On Mistress Elaine, my head dizzy as I stare into her eyes... I hike up my skirt a little and cross my legs, showing Master a stocking top and a hint of garter clasp.

He certainly takes notice. "So, how about the rest of your day?"

"Ummm..." I reach across to his lap, and start to unzip his fly. "Can I please tell you later on? Afterwards?"

"Afterwards? After what, pray tell?" He is grinning.

"After this whore worships her Master's cock with her tongue? Please? I've been waiting patiently all day!" My hand is in his pants, now, setting him free of his boxers. His cock is marvelously solid and thick. I know he'll let me suck him off, and I uncross my legs and leave them spread so he can see my black-pantied crotch, already slick. He leans back and presents the object of my addiction. I am on my knees on the floor between his feet in an instant. He looks down on me like a benevolent deity—which, to me, he always is.

I stare deep into his eyes while my mouth slowly slides down him, taking all eight inches in my throat. My fingers, no longer needed as I move my neck up and down in his favorite motions, drop to the hem of my skirt and raise it so he can see all of my glory, how much I want him and desire him and need him. Holding onto the fabric with one hand, I use the other to pull aside my new thong, part my inner lips, and smear my fuckjuice all over my pubis and upper thighs. He watches me all the while, and I can feel him pulsing in my throat, instants away from shooting into me. I finger my snatch with vigor and purpose. My prize, his come, is near.

"Mmmm... come for me, my little slut," he moans, and his fluids are squirting into my body. I'm almost there. "Come for Master, my love. Mywife."

Oh, and I do, I do! Whenever he calls me "wife", or when he makes me kiss the gold band on his finger, or rub my own wedding ring on my clit, I always come hardest of all—better even than when he licks my slut-cunt, though I'd never tell him that.

A girl's got to havesomesecrets.