The Select Bank headquarters slouches toward the riverbank, nothing like its competitors’ skyscrapers in the core of downtown a couple miles away. The office we’re sitting in, though, is just as sleekly appointed as any of its counterparts I’ve seen in the last four months. Below the huge windows of the top-floor office, its strip of landscaping gives way to the tangle of undeveloped land it neighbors. I’m sure the clientele appreciates the privacy. The river here is wide and sluggish, a single small boat picking its way upstream.
“Fingers,” Miss snaps at me. I’ve been absently picking at my cuticle while gazing out the window. Miss doesn’t mind me not listening to the report she’s delivering to the bank’s head of security, but I’m supposed to at least seem attentive. She hates when I’m visibly anxious, too, and when I pick at myself too. I swallow my dread and smile as Miss shoots the bigshot an apologetic look. “That line of access is quite secure from a purely technical perspective,” she tells him, “but of course you have to train your employees against a social engineering vector…”
As she continues to run down the list of weak points she’s identified in their systems, I make sure not to become distracted again. Having put her in a bad mood, I know she’ll be extra alert to whatever small errors I might make.
The meeting runs another twenty minutes before the two of them set another appointment in a month. Miss glances my way, but I’m already diligently noting it in the hardcover appointment book I’ve pulled from the large messenger bag by my chair. She shakes the executive’s hand and strides out of the office; I’m close on her heels.
In the three-story-high atrium, Miss turns to face me for a moment, her eyes traveling up and down my body. “Come on,” she says, and leads me through a short hallway, at the end of which is the door to a single-user restroom. I expertly hide the trembling of my knees as she pulls the handle and ushers me inside. She glances over her shoulder and then follows me in, locking the door.
The bathroom is well-appointed, its location on the top floor making it clear that it’s intended for the bank’s top execs and wealthiest clients. Miss removes her suit jacket and hangs it on the wooden hook set into the door. “You’re getting on my nerves today,” she says bluntly. “I’ll punish you properly for it later, but I need to work out a bit of frustration before the drive home. Take off the dress.” She places a pinch of coke on the marble top of the cabinet next to the basin and shapes it into a line as I fumble with the button at the back of my neck. My dress is a black A-line that falls to mid-thigh. The neckline plunges between my breasts, but there's a collar of glimmering golden lacework beneath that reaches my neck and keeps the outfit looking vaguely professional. At the back, between the burnished button that holds it closed and the fitted band of gold lace that overlays the black satin at my midriff, it exposes a diamond of bare skin. A thin gold choker and two bracelets on each wrist, plus pumps with two-inch heels and a dull metallic color, complete the look. It's a classy and elegant outfit, if not quite fitting with what most corporate secretaries wear.
The lingerie revealed when I hastily wriggle out of the dress and hang it on the door's coathook is a different story. A bustier of intricate slate-grey lacework comes up barely high enough to cover my nipples, though it has integrated wire that does an impressive job of supporting my heavy breasts. The affair is strapless, but laced at the back for a tight and secure fit. It leaves my shoulder blades bare, and the section that covers my waist is nearly transparent. My belly button is left uncovered, framed by an A shape where the lace descends on either side to form garters that hold up my thigh-high stockings. They're of the same grey lace, each connected to one garter at the front and two at the back, which form a W shape over my buttocks. I'm also wearing matching panties in a string bikini cut, which are largely transparent except for the front center panel. All this lace is hardly comfortable to wear all day, but glancing in the mirror over the sink it's easy to see how it appeals to Miss.
I stand upright by the door, head bowed, my shoulder-length brown hair curling slightly around my face. Miss straightens from where she was bent over the counter. With a grin, she approaches me and puts one arm around my shoulders, the other hand finding my ass and giving it a squeeze.
Miss is a head taller than me and a good deal stockier. I'm not skinny by any means, but she's not lean either and she has a lot more muscle. She wears her blonde hair in a shaggy mullet, and her eyes have dark circles under them. In her late thirties, she "works hard, plays hard," although in a ratio that skews toward the latter. Not that she isn't very good at what she does - so good she only has to spend ten or fifteen hours a week on it to be richer than I ever was. Her touch is rough and I flinch, too aware of her sharp mood.
She notices my reticence and shoves me against the wall, pinning me at the shoulders and planting a knee between my legs. My hands fly up to scrabble at hers. She usually doesn't mind my useless, compulsive efforts at self-defense. She leers at me, her icy grey eyes rimmed with red.
Her knee rises to grind into my crotch and I feel myself harden against her as she bends to kiss me on the neck. My breathing becomes ragged and I can't help but grind against her knee. I'm shaking in my pumps because I know where this is going.
Sure enough, the kissing becomes biting and I cry out. Miss pauses for a moment to slap me lightly across the face, then on the right tit, harder. "Keep it quiet," she orders, and goes back to giving me several massive hickeys around my choker. When she gets her fill of that, her lips find mine. Her sunken eyes watch me closely. I'm not reciprocating, but she doesn't care. When she's in a gentler mood she appreciates when I kiss her back, but right now her sadism is in full swing. Her teeth nip at my lips and tongue, and her own tongue probes deep into my mouth. She wants me to struggle, to choke on her, and I do.
As Miss eases off me one hand slips into the waistband of my panties and pulls them down. They're slick inside, displaying my arousal despite myself. They fall to my ankles when she retracts her knee. "Give," she says, and I oblige, bending over to pick them up as I step out of them. My already-softening shaft is left exposed.
Miss grabs them from me. Then she sticks something in the sink's drain to plug it, and turns the water on. Not a good sign. While the sink fills she unbuttons her trousers and lowers her own panties. She stands over the toilet and holds mine up against her dick as she lets loose a stream of piss. It dribbles through into the bowl, leaving the grey lace and satin sopping.
She holds them out to me. I glare balefully from where I'm still standing against the wall. We stand off for several seconds. Then she raises an eyebrow slightly and the thrill of fear in my stomach has me hastening forward to take them from her.
"In your mouth, that's a good girl," Miss says, turning to rinse her hand in the sink. I discreetly give the panties a squeeze, but Miss turns her head to look at me. She at least suspects what I did, but she doesn't say anything. I can't delay any further and take the sodden fabric into my mouth. Tears spring to my eyes at the acrid, slightly nutty taste and I choke on the trickle of liquid at the back of my throat. It's not a ton of fabric but my mouth is still quite full.
I can see Miss almost trembling in anticipation as she once more puts an arm around my shoulder. She leads me over to the slowly-filling sink. I glance at my miserable face in the mirror over the basin. My light pink lipstick is badly smeared and my golden eye shadow is getting messed up too. My face is visibly flushed even through my foundation. Either deliberately while I was distracted, or by accident while leaning her body into mine, Miss has pulled down the stiff cups that cover my breasts enough to expose the quarter-size golden rings hanging from my rouged nipples.
Miss isn't wearing any makeup at all. She's dressed well, in dark gold trousers matching the jacket she removed and a sleeveless button-up top in cream, but she ultimately doesn't need to put on an impressive face for most of her clients. My own elaborate appearance is mostly for her own benefit.
She pushes my shoulders forward, her other hand on my belly, to bend me over. I catch myself on the narrow rim of the dark stone basin, which is luckily sturdy enough to take my weight. The hand not caressing my belly reaches over my shoulder to cup my chin, then roams across my features. Both by touch and in the mirror, Miss admires my aquiline nose, my dark eyebrows, my lips pursed shut in the knowledge that Miss will be very upset if I let the piss-soaked panties fall out of my mouth.
Her other hand moves from my belly to my rear. She has a small bottle of lube, which she applies to my asshole. Her fingers slip inside, coating my hole in the chill slime. I close my eyes, wincing, as her sizable cock slides into me, but she delivers a hard smack on the side of my buttock. "Come on, Ada, keep your eyes open. Look how cute you are!"
She grabs my hair and holds my head up straight. I can't look the pathetic wretch in the eyes, so I watch Miss instead. Her other hand grabs my waist hard and she pants, needing me, as she begins to thrust in and out, rough and fast, rutting almost, and I whine as my pain and fear give ground to the heat rising in me. Even so, tears run down my face as she lets go of my hair to turn off the sink, finally full, and holds my waist with both hands for extra leverage. Her dick is large enough that even though I'm used to it by now, it's still painful whenever she deviates from a totally straight angle. It gives her a lot of control over me, my body arching involuntarily against her hips and my hands pushing painfully on the lip of the basin. I'm breathing heavily through my nose, trying not to choke on the fabric in my mouth.
Miss finds a steady rhythm, only a little slower than her initial burst of energy. Soon I'm thrusting my hips too, my fear forgotten, my breasts pendulums, slapping into my belly. In a few minutes, though, when Miss approaches her climax, she grabs my hair again and I squirm and shout, muffled, knowing what's coming.
She pushes my head down into the water-filled basin. I try to keep calm but within moments I fail. I thrash and push as hard as I can with my arms, but I'm weaker than she is and without any leverage. My hair drifts around my face and I hold back a sob, desperate not to release any air from my lungs. That probably lasts less than a minute as Miss pumps her hips frantically. I cough, and my pathetic flailing provokes an orgasm from Miss, hot cum filling my ass as she pulls me half-conscious out of the sink and her cock out of my hole.
I drop to my knees and cough the panties out onto the wet tile, then a measure of water. Then I fall over onto my side, gasping and with cum dripping from my asshole.
Miss straightens her hair and clothes while I fill my spasming lungs. She prods the fallen panties with the toe of one flat-soled ballet shoe. "Dropped these." She leans against the wall by the door and lights a cigarette. "Clean this shit up," she tells me.
When I can take a few deep breaths in a row without coughing I get to my knees and pick up the newly-sodden lace and satin. Miss is watching, casual but vigilant, so I don't dare wring them out again before I place them in my mouth. But disgust wells in me at the wetness of them on my tongue and the knowledge they were just lying on the floor of a public restroom, even a very nice one. The panties fall back out as I retch and cough. I don't even have to glance at Miss to know she's not feeling merciful. I take a deep breath before I try again, successfully this time.
I stand up and make haste to grab a handful of paper towels, squatting down to mop up the water pooling around the sink. Once I have the floor dry I brace myself and reach into the basin to dislodge the wad of shrink-wrap plastic that Miss plugged the drain with. I wipe down the basin and do my best with the mirror.
Finished, I motion to the toilet and tilt my head questioningly. "Yeah, go ahead and clean yourself up," Miss says, finishing the cigarette and flicking the butt in the trash on top of the mess of wet paper towels.
I sit and piss, then use toilet paper to clean as much cum out of my ass as I can. Then, after washing my hands, I use the last of the paper towels to dry my hair as best I can, combing my bangs with my fingers. I take my dress from the coathook and pull it over my head as Miss shrugs back into her jacket. She does up the zipper at the back of my waistband - I can undo it myself but putting it on is harder. I fasten the button at my neck and pick up the messenger bag. Miss holds the door open and I'm relieved not to find anyone waiting in the hall.
As we leave the building, I keep my lips clamped shut. My disheveled appearance gets odd looks from the receptionists, but no one takes any particular notice of us as we exit into the parking lot.
Byron, Miss's driver and live-in servant, is waiting for us in the black electric SUV just in front of the doors. He gets out to open the door for us, taking the messenger bag and putting it in the trunk. He's dressed in pinstripe trousers and a short-sleeve buttoned shirt, leaving his burly arms on display. He's on the short side, and older, but he spends a lot of time in the gym.
I sit next to Miss in back, pulling the door shut behind me. She puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into a sideways hug, holding the car's small garbage can in front of me. "You did a good job," she tells me. "You can drop them." Grateful, I let the bedraggled panties fall into the trash.
"Going home," Miss tells Byron. He switches the engine on and pulls out.
The oversized townhouse purchased with the fruits of Miss's business, legitimate and otherwise, nestles among near-identical neighbors in the eastern blocks of the city center. Skyscrapers rise up less than a mile away, but these streets are lined with trees. Byron parks on the street outside and the three of us hurry inside to get out of the rapidly cooling evening air.
"Go let Charlie out," Miss says as we file into the foyer, "and get her ready to come join me in the bath. Dinner at the usual time."
"Yes Miss, understood!" I make haste down a short set of steps to the semi-basement, the back half of the first story as it were.
The cell where Charlie is kept while no one's home occupies one corner of the concrete-floored "dungeon," converted from a below-ground garage by simply bricking up the door. Anchors are set into the floor, walls, and ceiling in a few places, and a couple wooden frames with straps attached are gathered against one wall of the cell, although the effect is dampened by the presence of a washer and dryer in the corner opposite. There's also a large drain in the floor with a pair of shower-heads protruding from the wall over it. The cell itself is furnished with a small metal toilet and a thin foam mattress with a plastic cover, plus a big dog bowl half-full of water.
Charlie's lying face-down on the mattress, humping the corner in an attempt to thwart the chastity device locked around her hips. It's ineffectual, but she's still not supposed to be doing it, so I'll have to report that to Miss. She still does it more often than not, which isn't surprising given how Miss treats her. Her leather "alone time" hood muffles sound, so she doesn't notice me opening the door and entering the cell until I place my hand on her flank. She starts at my touch, backing away off the mattress and kowtowing until her forehead touches the floor, just in case it's Miss interrupting her.
When I undo the leather hood and pull it off her, though, she recognizes my touch. Losing any semblance of respect, she sits up and pushes herself at me, slobbering at me blindly. Her plaintive moaning echoes off the concrete as she tries to hump my leg and rub her nipples against my clothes. It's not even against the rules, because Miss thinks it's funny when she comes at me.
Personally, I find her ravening repulsive. I push her away by the shoulders, rough, turn her around, and unbuckle the straitjacket of heavy leather. It covers her arms and shoulders, but apart from that it's just held together by straps, leaving her breasts bare. Below the arms it's just the crotch strap, bifurcated at the front so she can piss with it on and joining between her legs. Rubber slippers sheathe her toes and the balls of her feet, stopping short at the arch but held on by an inelastic strap around the ankle. An anchor at the back is connected to the back of the straitjacket by cords that are too short for her to fully extend her legs, which I remove.
Charlie has calmed down momentarily while I removed her more restrictive bondage, but once I'm done she comes at me again, now with her arms and legs free. "Stop, stop! I have to get you ready for her bath!" I tell her. I know she can hear me but she's not cooperating. I don't like to hurt her, and Miss would return any permanent damage I did her to me twofold, but I often have no choice if I want to get anywhere with the little bitch. When she paws hard at my boob I lose my patience, grabbing one of her pigtails and pulling her head sideways and then using that leverage to get her in a headlock from behind.
"I'm supposed to get you ready for your bath," I say. "You don't want to keep her waiting, I don't want to keep her waiting, so behave yourself or I'll..." I don't have a good threat, she likes it when I hit her. "Or you'll keep her waiting." Lame, but she nods and falls to her hands and knees when I let go of her.
Coming out on top of a struggle with Charlie isn't exactly difficult. Even with her "alone time" bondage removed, she's still got a thinner hood that leaves only her lower face bare; she can hear pretty well through it but she can't see. It's got small holes through which her red hair protrudes in two plaited pigtails. Sturdy metal rings are braided into the ends to make them even easier to handle her by. A gag of rigid, rubber-coated wires is fitted over her teeth to hold them slightly open, and can be adjusted wider without even removing it if you stick a hex wrench in her mouth. It's held on with a stretchy harness worn over the hood, which passes both behind her head and over it as well as under the chin. Her hands are enveloped in thick mittens that keep them uselessly flat, and her slippers stay on so that her legs can be restrained anytime. Plus her chastity device, which encloses her tender bits in a cage of hard white plastic and sculpted foam with only a tiny hole to let her piss. It's held on by a high-leg thong (with a hole in the front through which pokes the middle of the cage) that's too tight and rigid to remove except by undoing the hook-and-loop closures at her tailbone - like unfastening a bra, impossible to manage with her hand restraints. All of it's done up in jade-green rubber (except the gag's harness, the collar on the hood, and the straps on the mittens and slippers, which are white), which means I don't have to take any of it off before I lead her out of the cell and under the showerhead.
My own outfit is less waterproof, so after turning the water on and letting it run over Charlie, I strip it off and place it in the hamper by the washing machine, except the lace underwear - that needs hand-washing. Meanwhile she stands there and sways more or less contentedly. It's not warm, but it's not ice-cold either, and she's been stewing in her own juices all day.
Once I'm nude I join her under the spray and soap both of us down. She gropes at me, leaning into me, but gently enough not to be too much of a bother. She's taller than me by a few inches, but a good deal more slender, so she can't exactly bowl me over. I scrub and rinse her off, then myself, and then I turn off the water and towel us both dry.
"Alright, go on up," I tell her, "she's probably got the bath drawn by now." Charlie nods and picks her way out of the dungeon, feeling in front of her with her hands and ascending the stairs on hands and feet.
I sigh, one task out of the way, and go to use the toilet in the now-open cell. Then I fish appropriate attire from the massive wardrobe by the washer and dryer. For cooking and cleaning, that means my maid uniform. The first piece is a top made of black PVC. The so-called neckline bares my entire collarbone and bosom, and the hem comes to barely below my sternum, so essentially all it covers in front is my shoulders and a few inches right under my tits. It's got full coverage in the back, for whatever that's worth. It's got short, puffy sleeves that are decorated with white cuffs and big white linen frills over the shoulders to evoke the apron of a French maid.
Next I put on a sort of bustier made of layers of white satin, buttoning it to the PVC top to keep the latter from riding up and doing up the laces tight in front. It's got some wiring at the upper hem where it's sculpted outward an inch to give my heavy breasts a modicum of support, but apart from that it's simply a band of stiff fabric that comes down to a couple inches above my navel. The lower edge is fitted with garters, stretchy cording edged with more frills. The bustier sits higher than most garter belts, so they're pretty long, and they pass through my legs to attach at the front and back, hanging limp until I pull on the white nylon stockings that go with them. When I do that and clip them on, the garters trace a long oval of bare skin that arches over my navel and down my thighs, passing between my legs almost halfway down to the knee. The ruffled frills spread outward from that oval, just to frame it with some extra emphasis. The stockings themselves are higher on the sides, reaching to just under my buttocks, and clip onto the garters beneath the frills at the front and inside thigh and at the butt. There's also some satin stretched between the cording at the top of the garters to make the openings onto my belly, flanks, and ass more rounded, and a little white bow sits at the top of the front opening where the frills would have to be upside down to be lined up with the rest.
Wearing this base layer, I reach for an apron. It's made of sturdy white PVC; even the trimming is PVC instead of linen, totally waterproof. It's held up by plasticky belts attached to the edges, no wider than a finger. One goes around my neck like a halter, holding up the narrow top edge which widens just enough to cover my pierced nipples. Another belt connected to the corners there passes around under my shoulder blades, and a third goes at waist level just over my belly button where the apron's about the same width, and then from there it narrows rapidly to pass between my legs, becoming another strap that sits between my buttocks and is connected to each of the other belts on its way up to the one around my neck. In short, it's pulled taut over my curves and exposes about as much sideboob, belly, and pubis as it can while covering my junk and nips, with next to no coverage in the back. Stiff frills decorate the narrowing lower hem in a gesture toward a skirt, although they don't go lower than the belly, and a shiny red bow is fixed to the collar at my throat.
I glance at the clock over the door, anxious, but I still have time to get dinner on the table. The outfit doesn't take all that long to put on compared to some of the more skintight latex ones, and Charlie didn't slow me down as much as she might have.
I comb out my damp hair and divide it into two short ponytails high on my head. Then I put on the hood. It's much like Charlie's, thin latex rubber, except white and it leaves most of my face uncovered. I pull the ponytails through the holes in the sides and make sure the brush of my short bangs is sticking artfully out from the upper edge before doing up the zipper and the black collar. It's even got its own frill running across the top like a headband, just for that French maid realness. I find the black two-inch heels with ankle straps and little red bows and slip them on. Lastly I slip a red dildo gag into my mouth. It's not too thick, but it's uncomfortably long. It's got a simple strap that buckles behind my head, and I'm even allowed to remove it myself if asked to speak, but I'd get in big trouble if I were caught without it.
The kitchen is on the first floor, not large but kitted out with a variety of nice equipment. I grimace at the mess that greets me when I enter. Clearly Byron did all his meal prep for the next week earlier today; he doesn't usually eat with Miss but he uses the same kitchen as me, and doesn't make the slightest effort to tidy up either. So it's on me to get the kitchen in a usable state, on top of making a dinner up to Miss's standards.
I do nearly manage, turning out a pumpkin bisque and a few cornbread muffins just in time to serve Miss as she takes her seat in the dining room. She brings Charlie in on her hands and knees at the end of a leash, leaving her to sit on the floor where I've set out her food dish. Miss has dressed her in a full coverage bodysuit of thick but skintight white vinyl with integrated kneepads. Her mitts have been replaced over it, and it's footless except for a stirrup passing under the arch. Apart from that her only exposed skin is her lower face and neck and her ring-pierced nipples. I pour Miss some whiskey from the bottle on the sideboard.
"Take her gag off, would you?" she orders as I place the tureen on the table. I curtsy and gesture to my own gag, indicating I'd like to speak. She nods and I undo the strap, pulling the dildo from my mouth.
"Miss, when I went to release Charlie after we got back, she was humping the mattress again." I notice Charlie go stiff, but I can't afford not to rat her out - we'd both be in for it if I was caught covering for her.
"Ah. Take it off regardless." I nod, replacing my own. Charlie reaches up to paw at me when I approach, but I get behind her to undo the harness and pry out her dental gag. She doesn't want to be too loud about it while Miss is eating.
Back in the kitchen I work fast to clean up some of the dishes that are still left, and like an idiot I get distracted and leave the chicken marsala in the oven several minutes too long. I curse to myself - it's not ruined, but I'm sure Miss will notice. Still, I don't have time to do anything but serve it as-is.
When I return to the dining room Charlie's eating messily from her bowl, a ladle-full of bisque poured over half a corn muffin. I serve the chicken to Miss and return to the kitchen to finish cleaning up. Everything is spotless by the time Miss has had time to eat, or at least I hope I haven't missed anything.
Once again I enter the dining room, where Charlie is finishing the piece of chicken Miss dropped in her bowl. My place at Miss's left, where I left an empty plate and bowl, is now supplied with the portions Miss has set aside for me. She nods to indicate I can clear the table apart from that, which I do before returning with the small plate of cookies I've assembled from a few different packets. At a gesture from Miss, I remove my gag and my apron and sit to eat. She picks at her dessert and fiddles with her phone while I make haste to finish eating before she gets bored. The chicken is as dry as I feared.
At last she pockets her phone and stands, taking Charlie's leash. "Alright, girls, let's go downstairs and review." I follow her to the dungeon, grim. As Miss watches from the doorway I strip out of the maid uniform and remove the leg restraints from Charlie. Miss indicates I should leave her bodysuit, and with me fully nude, Charlie and I prostrate ourselves on the concrete floor.
At a word from Miss we straighten up to a kneel, sitting on our heels, heads bowed, hands laced behind our heads. She's wearing a casual tan button-up shirt, short-sleeved, which hangs open to reveal a black t-shirt bra. Her knee-length skirt and her flats are black as well.
"Well, let's see then," she muses. "Charlie, you were a good girl during our bath, but you went at the mattress again while we were away, didn't you? Not a bad day, but we do need to address that. And Ada, you were getting on my nerves at work today even with that nice fuck in the bathroom. And that main course could really have used some work. So I'm not pleased with how you did today at all.
"Why don't you two bring out the bench with the adjustable angle and we can get started?" We spring to our feet and I take Charlie's hand to lead her over to the device Miss wants. It's heavy, but the wheels on two of the legs allow us to move it without too much trouble to the center of the open area. I secure the legs to anchors set in the floor. Miss fixes a modestly sized strap-on dildo to Charlie's hips over the bodysuit, and then at her direction we get Charlie lying on the bench face-up. Her legs are spread to get her knees over the sides, where I strap her ankles to the supports. Another strap, inch-wide leather, goes across her hips. The top is lightly padded and there's a joint in it so that half of it is raised at a 45-degree angle, so that she's half sitting up.
Satisfied with Charlie's position, Miss lubes up the dildo and helps me up to sit on it, facing Charlie and straddling her hips. I let out a soft groan as it slides into my asshole; my feet don't reach the ground and Charlie, still ungagged, sighs at my weight on her. Miss then ties my arms straight behind my back with a silken rope and pulls the end through a ceiling anchor. It's not that harsh as strappado goes, but it makes it uncomfortable not to lean forward. She also clips thin, stretchy cords between our nipple rings, which tug lightly when I sit at the equilibrium point I've found. Then she puts a leather harness on my head that includes a thick rubber bit gag, which immediately has me drooling, and a padded blindfold. With all arranged to her satisfaction, she gets things started.
Out of nowhere a stiff cane strikes me in the left flank, the tip catching my stomach. I yelp and buck, which has the unfortunate effect of yanking the cords attached to my nipples, driving the dildo up into me, and wrenching my arms. The next blow, to the top of my boob, is more painful still, but I'm less surprised and more able to restrain my reaction.
Apparently Miss has removed Charlie's constraining mittens. The bodysuit she's wearing doesn't cover her hands except for a stirrup between her thumb and forefinger, so it's her bare fingers that find my tits. I hate her for her lust, knowing she won't stop until Miss makes her. I want to lean away from her, but of course that's even worse. So I keep as still as I can as her digits quest over my tits, belly, dick, neck, face, and as Miss swishes her cane at all the most tender parts she can reach. Occasionally Charlie is hit and her frantic writhing has her fucking me rough, but it's obvious that I'm the one Miss is really pissed at.
Miss abandons the cane for a set of four tiny claw-knives that fit over her pointer and ring fingers on each hand. The first prick of my collarbone has me begging for mercy, incoherent through the gag. Without mercy Miss scores trails down my sides and up my spine, pricks my thighs and butt. My struggles only invigorate Charlie, who wraps her arms around my ribcage and hauls herself against me. Her lips and then her teeth find the soft flesh of my breast and I scream, trying to pull away. The dildo bumps around inside me and the chains tug at my nipples as I squirm. Then Miss's clawed hands close around my throat and I freeze, knowing the knives are sharp enough to slice an artery even by mistake. She squeezes just hard enough to slow the blood flow; I shudder and gasp for breath. Charlie finds my lips and kisses me around the gag. I'm crying now, and she licks at my tears and then bites my chin for some reason. I'm dizzy with breathlessness before Miss lets go of my throat in favor of slicing at my stomach as she hugs me from behind.
They keep at it for more long minutes. I can't stop crying now, even when Miss stops and helps me off of Charlie. When she takes the blindfold off, I don't want to meet her eyes, but she gazes steadily into mine until I can't help it anymore. When I do, she smiles. "There now, it wasn't so bad, was it? Let's get you two ready for bed." I nod through my tears and then I help her get Charle down.
Despite what sounded like an intention to help out; Miss only sits and watches while I strip Charlie out of the white bodysuit and replace her mittens, slippers, and gag. Once again I shower both of us while Miss goes out for an evening smoke. I don't put on clothes before I go up to Miss's bedroom, leading Charlie by the hand.
The bedroom is on the fourth half-floor, its windows overlooking the tiny backyard, the roof of the garage-cum-dungeon, and the alley behind it. It's a large open space, taking up the whole floor's area except that reserved for the bathroom. There's a sitting area with a sofa and a couple armchairs in dark leather, surrounding a coffee table where a whiskey bottle sits out. A decorative screen stands beside a dresser and a vanity stocked with rarely-used cosmetics. The bed is king-size, with wine-dark silk sheets and a curtain hanging around it to keep out drafts. Next to it, and used as a bedside table by Miss, is Charlie's cage. It's a crate for a big dog, made of closely-spaced wire and appointed with a thick blanket folded at the bottom and a large hamster-style water bottle.
Charlie and I kneel at the foot of the bed, backs straight, hands on knees, butt on heels. We wait for only a couple minutes before Miss comes inside. "Yeah, get her in the crate," she says as she goes into the bathroom.
Charlie seems to feel uncooperative suddenly; I end up having to practically drag her into the cage and then pry her arms away from my leg. I close and lock the door and kneel again.
After several more minutes in the bathroom Miss emerges, nude. She stands over me, considering, and then sits at the end of the bed. She beckons and I turn and shuffle toward her, still on my knees. I start small, kissing and lapping at the tip until it hardens. At that point Miss grabs my ponytails and pulls me against her, using them as handles while she facefucks me. For the third time today I'm struggling to breathe. Then she wraps her legs around my head and finishes. I swallow and lick her clean and only then does she pull out, leaving me to catch my breath and stand up.
A black ball gag sits on thy little table by my side of the bed, opposite Charlie's cage. I stick it in my mouth and do up the strap behind my head. Miss's taste lingers in my mouth and I wish I could've had some water after.
Mss indicates with a gesture that she's not interested at the moment in fucking my ass again. A relief, since I'm exhausted and super sore. I grab the small ceramic plug from the bedside table and stick it inside me. Then I lay down. There are leather cuffs tethered by silken rope to the headboard and baseboard; I fasten and lock the ones on my ankles and Miss does my wrists. I'm left lying face-up, legs spread and with my arms bent, wrists held right behind the crown of my head. Miss helps me with my pillow, then pulls a sleep mask down over my eyes. She yawns, turns out the light, and sprawls over her side of the bed.
I'm used to sleeping like this, and my eyes are heavy with sleep under the blindfold. I fall into sleep quickly.
I think I got an uninterrupted sleep cycle in, and at least part of a second. Not bad. By this point in the night Miss is snoring in my ear as she spoons me. Even in her sleep her hands wander - she woke me up by tweaking one of my nipple rings. I gasp through the ball gag as she does it again. I close my eyes and try to count sheep, to focus on anything besides the sensations in my own body. She's got a leg thrown over mine and an arm draped across my chest, and I can feel her sweat where our skin touches. Mine too, probably. Miss prefers a sleeping temperature a few degrees warmer than I do. The air is thick with our mingled scents.
The minutes wear on into hours, or it feels like it, and I can't escape my body. Aches and itches run through me and I can't move to address them. Every little noise brings me back to full consciousness.
As they sometimes do this time of night, my thoughts turn to a place I keep them from at any other time. Tears come to my eyes under the sleep mask almost instantly at the thoughts of my sister. The man who killed her did so by committee, impersonal, one line item in a ledger filled with blood, not a drop on his own hands, and without her where could my life possibly go? He deserved what he got, it's not even a question, he deserved it hundreds and thousands of times over, and even so the red that blooms in my mind's eye makes me want to throw up. I never thought I'd get away with it, was planning suicide by cop, I guess, because I couldn't go to prison. So when, a month later and half a country away, I found pictures in my mailbox so much clearer than anything the cops had...
Having successfully distracted myself, I drift into sleep again. Where my first sleep was dreamless, this time I've walked myself right into a recollection of my first meeting with Miss.
I played dumb at first but she had no patience for it, I offered everything I owned, which was nothing to her, and finally I even threatened her. She only laughed. Maybe that was a bluff, but in fact there was no way I could kill anyone ever again, the first time was too horrible. So when she laughed at me I knew she owned me utterly.
"Take off your clothes," she told me. I'd known the meeting would be my funeral in some way and had arrived in my finest, which back then was a little black dress, a dark pink bomber jacket, light pink tights, and black knee high boots. In the dream the zippers of the jacket and dress, the buckles on the boots, make no sense and I find I can't breathe as I try to pull them off, but then they fall apart and I'm left in the pink tights, dark cotton panties over them, and a mismatched blue bra. She made me take the rest off too, and I trembled to know how deeply I was in her power.
Miss studied me closely, inspecting me, even checked my teeth like you would with a horse. I couldn't meet her steel-grey eyes as she looked into mine. She wore a tight red dress, knee-length, very femme fatale.
"I have a job opportunity for you," she said. "It pays twenty-five thousand dollars a year, plus room and board. It's an eight year contract, and if you leave early - or if you refuse me - well." She leaned in to whisper in my ear, one hand on my shoulder, and I jumped as the other found my ass, fondling it. The seductive purr of her voice was at odds with the threats she laid out to me, a life sentence in the nastiest, most brutal men's prison her connections in the justice department can arrange for, she'd barely have to lift a finger to do it, and her lurid depictions of my life there were punctuated with slaps of her hand. I flinched every time, but she held me in place with her grip on my shoulder, and by the time she was done my ass was stinging and I was shaking in fear, tears in my eyes.
Miss straightened then, and went back to sit behind her desk. "On the other hand, you can be a good girl for me for eight years, I'll destroy the evidence, and you can be out at thirty-two with two hundred thousand dollars."
I tried to regain my composure, not really succeeding. "How do I know you'll let me go then?"
"I think you understand you have no choice but to trust me. I do keep my word."
"I don't even know your name."
I was taken aback when she gave me her name. I later surmised that the man I killed had been her cousin, the photos of me likely taken by one of her private detective associates sent to tail him over an inheritance dispute. "But you will simply call me Miss," she added.
So I signed some papers and got dressed and went home for a night to put my affairs in order. I quit my fast food job, terminated my lease, buried a few personal items in a state park (where I can only hope they remain to this day) and dumpstered the rest of my meager possessions. All I kept was one set of clothes and my vital documents, which I turned over to Miss when I met her at the airport. She threw out my clothes and had me dress in a sluttier outfit, and then fucked me in the first class lounge bathroom. In the dream I can feel her cock in me...
So vivid it wakes me up and I realize it's my butt plug, vibrating hard to wake me up without disturbing Miss.
The timer mechanism behind the headboard has released the rope connected to my wrist cuffs. I pull off the sleep mask, ease Miss off me and hit the little wireless button on the bedside table that turns off the alarm, then grab the key to undo my cuffs. I blink sleep from my eyes as I stand and pad over to the other side of the bed. I unlock Charlie's cage and reach into the dark interior. My hand finds her leg and I shake her awake. She stirs, soundless, and clambers out onto the hardwood floor. I help her stand and lead her out of the bedroom.
Charlie is probably as sleepy as I am, or at least enough not to give me any nonsense on the way down to the dungeon room. There, I remove my gag and butt plug, washing and rinsing them and setting them aside to bring back upstairs later.
Then I get myself and Charlie into our workout leotards. They're made of a thin, stretchy, slightly see-through lycra, though it's tight enough to prevent any bits from bouncing around. They've got short sleeves and a modest enough neckline, but the high leg and t-back leaves our butts pretty exposed. Charlie's is green, matching her hood and such, while mine is golden.
I take off Charlie's slippers and redo my hair as a single ponytail, then we head into the home gym. That's the other room of the semi-basement. The windows, high on the wall, look onto ground level outside, giving a view through the flowers and grasses of the backyard - when it's not dark out, as it is now. A door leads out to a sunken flight of stairs. The gym is equipped with an elliptical machine, a couple versatile weight machines, a bench, and a rack of free weights. The other half of the space is empty but for a stack of floor mats and a single floor-to-ceiling pole toward one end. The wall along that section is entirely mirrored, and a bar like those found in dance studios runs along it. The floor is soft wood and the ceiling is hung with track lights, a big fan, and a none-too-discreet security camera.
Byron was in the kitchen using the blender when we came downstairs. He keeps us waiting for a minute so I help Charlie drink some water, and have a big drink myself. Before too long he enters, sipping at some kind of shake or smoothie that leaves a white mustache on his lip he keeps licking off. Byron is a head shorter than Charlie, a few inches shorter than me, but he's way bigger than either of us, bulky and muscular and without much excess fat. He's clad only in a pair of tight shorts, showing off his broad chest, which he shaved for a party a couple weeks ago, the stubble dark. He's in his late forties, and grey flecks his thick hair and manicured beard. He spends hours a day working out, and he's in charge of making sure Charlie and I stay in good shape without gaining "unsightly bulk."
"Ready to get started, girls?" He doesn't wait for a response, ushering us over to the bare floor and leading us through the extensive routine of stretches he taught us. He does some with us, but he's mostly busy being super hands-on when it comes to correcting small flaws in our posture or technique. Especially Charlie's, since at least I have the advantage of watching myself in the mirror.
As usual, Byron has a hard-on by the time we move on to the barre exercises mandated by Miss, obvious through his shorts. He's allowed to use Charlie's mouth, or my hands, without any special approval from Miss. In practice, though, he has some notions about semen retention that preclude his making use of that job perk more than once a week or so.
Byron leads us through several sit-ups and push-ups while he finishes his shake, then a bunch of squats, jumping jacks, and other calisthenics. Then he cuffs Charlie's wrists to the elliptical as I quickly change from my leotard into a slightly more socially acceptable outfit: a sports bra thick enough to conceal my nipple rings and tiny athletic shorts, both in white with stripes in yellow, red, and black down the sides; black ankle socks with yellow and red trim; white running shoes. Byron pulls on a pair of basketball shorts over the tight ones and gets his own shoes on.
The elliptical beeps to indicate Charlie needs to start running; if she doesn't follow the routine it sets she knows she'll get a harsh punishment. I take a last drink of water and then Byron and I head out the sturdy back door. He locks it behind us and we jog out the alley and into the street.
The sun is just beginning to color the sky. It's barely after six, and there's a chill in the air. Byron sets the pace, a fast jog, and I'm quick to warm up.
Not many people are out and about this time of the morning, but of course in a city of this size there are plenty of exceptions. My scant clothing and, let's be honest, my striking beauty garner plenty of stares from people walking their dogs or commuting, drunken revelers who've been up all night, fellow joggers, and despite the rich neighborhood, a few homeless folks as well. It rarely goes further than hungry leers and the occasional whistle, or a honk from a passing car. Byron is intimidating enough that the only people who ever mess with him are incredibly drunk.
We make it to the greenway entrance half a mile from the townhouse, and pick up the pace as we run along the river. It's the same one the office building we were at yesterday is on, walled off from the surrounding streets with a thick wall of trees and shrubbery. The dog-walkers and morning joggers all flock here and we nod in passing at each of them. I admire the birds and river grasses in the golden light of early morning as much as I can at this pace.
We make it a ways down the path before crossing a footbridge and heading back along the opposite bank. We exit on that side and take a sidewalk along a roadway bridge to get back to our own side. The half mile back to the townhouse we take at a light jog. The whole three mile route takes us less than thirty minutes.
When we return to the tiny backyard I'm gasping in the cold morning air, but Byron is fine. He may be older than me but he sleeps and eats better than I do, and he spends lots of time exercising to boot. He always sets a pace that pushes me hard, running behind me and paying attention to my breathing and movement. If I don't keep up, he pinches or slaps me, or just tells Miss to punish me later.
We get inside and I slip my shoes back into the shelf by the door, changing back into my leotard as Byron unshackles Charlie from the machine. We're allowed a five minute breather. Then I run through a pole dance routine Miss has told me to learn before a party this weekend, and then a couple more dances I already know, on pole and floor both. Meanwhile, Byron has Charlie do some exercises for moving better on all fours. Finally he runs us both through a few more calisthenics for a warm-down, then ushers us into the dungeon and locks the door from the outside.
Miss wakes up at eight, and it's after seven by the time we get to the shower. I take my leotard off and then strip Charlie down completely, hood and chastity and all. Her green eyes squint at me and she casts a glance at the two cameras mounted in the corners of the room. She knows she'll get in real trouble if she acts up or tries to get off right now. She can't get out the door, either.
Even though Charlie could wash herself now that her mittens are off, Miss doesn't trust her not to try and cum discreetly in the process. So once again I'm the one scrubbing her down. The change of pace is that she washes me for our morning shower. She takes out her frustration with little pinches and pokes now and then, but she knows she risks retaliation if she goes too far with it.
Once we're clean and have rubbed each other down with various oils and lotions, a skincare routine Miss requires of us, Charlie and I work together to braid her hair. Then I replace her hood, chastity, mittens and slippers. I press the doorbell by the room's door, which should get Byron to unlock it in the next five minutes, then dress in my maid outfit.
While Charlie goes up to wake Miss with her morning blowjob, I get everything prepared for a simple breakfast. Miss is still upstairs when I'm finished, so I leave off actually cooking it and go up to the bedroom myself.
It seems Miss wasn't content with a simple blowjob this morning, perhaps because she didn't fuck me very thoroughly last night. Now she's got Charlie on the bed in a kind of ridiculous position, face down, mittens leashed to the headboard and the anchor points at the back of her slippers tethered to the curtain rails. Her legs are spread wide and while her chest rests on the bed, her belly and legs are suspended above it. Miss is fucking her slow from behind; she glances at me when I enter but doesn't acknowledge me otherwise.
I take the laundry hamper down to the basement, sort out the dry clean and hand wash stuff, and dump the rest in the washer. Added to what was in there already it's full enough to start. I take the hamper back up and then give the bathroom a quick scrub. When I come back out into the bedroom, Miss has taken Charlie down and is cuddling the poor thing as she scrolls her phone.
She beckons me over. I take off my shoes and apron before sliding into the bed with the two of them, so I'm just wearing the top and bustier that leave my boobs and crotch uncovered, stockings, the frilled hood and the dildo gag.
Miss looks up from her phone and smiles at me. "Good morning, sweet thing. Sleep well?" She pulls the gag out of my mouth, but doesn’t actually wait for an answer before kissing me. As much as I often flinch from her touch, I also crave it, and with her seeming to be in a good mood, now's a safer time to indulge than most. Not that I have much say in it, of course, but I do lean into her touch, kissing back. Soon she's on top of me, tongue in my mouth, knee between my legs and digging it into me.
She gets me so worked up, kissing me all over my face and neck and then coming back to my mouth, teasing my piercings with her fingers, that I start grinding against her bare leg. She lets me do it until I'm getting close to cumming. Then she pulls away, hands off, and grins.
"Go get breakfast ready, I'll be down in five," she commands. I let out a ragged breath, my hands kneading my thighs for a moment. She just hands me the gag to replace in my mouth. I put my apron and shoes on and return to the kitchen, where I regretfully finish up with the eggs, potatoes, and grapefruit instead of jerking off.
Charlie and I get our own meal for breakfast. As the diet and nutrition expert of the household, Byron periodically concocts a huge pot of stew, portions it out and freezes it. It's not especially appetizing, a mix of disparate vegetables, chicken breast, cod, and nutritional yeast, undersalted and unspiced. I'm always starved for whatever carbs or sweets I can get at dinner.
After she finishes eating, Miss heads back upstairs for a shower and then to her study, where she might get some work done or simply browse the internet or play a computer game. For my part, I take Charlie to the dungeon to change her into her own maid uniform.
First her mittens and slippers come off, and then I put her in a black full-body nylon bodysuit, thin and see-through like pantihose and covering everything below her neck. Over that, a white leather corset goes around her waist. I attach the straps that dangle from that to the thick white PVC thigh-high boots or stockings I pull up her legs. Boots in that they have soles with a two-inch heel; stockings in that everything above the sole is skin-tight and not as stiff as any boot I've ever seen, supported by the leather straps rather than any internal structure. They also have integrated ankle cuffs, linked with less than two feet of chain.
Covering her shoulders and collarbone, but nothing below that, I add a garment like the top of a shirt. It consists mostly of a pair of short puffy sleeves and a starched white collar. The rest is in black cotton except for the white trim at the bottom of the sleeves, which buttons to a pair of gloves that cover the rest of her arms in thick PVC to match her stockings.
She gets an apron the same as mine, like the front half of a swimsuit stretched over her body by thin cords tied at the back. Lastly, I replace her green hood with a white one. It has a frill across the head like mine, but it covers her full face. It's got an integrated dildo gag with a hole through it to allow breathing through it, as well as two stubby tubes that fit up the nostrils. It also integrates a plastic visor over the eyes, allowing her some sight but only through its horizontal slats.
Before leaving the dungeon, I use small padlocks to secure the collars on both our hoods to a six-foot length of chain. A couple more padlocks keep her ankle cuffs too tight to remove. Charlie's situation is different from mine since Miss doesn't have blackmail on her. She's not allowed outside at all, and we keep the doors locked and the windows barred - not conspicuous in this city, even in a nice neighborhood - but Miss's policy is that she should always be restrained or supervised enough not to be able to try the door in the first place. Do I feel bad about my part in keeping her prisoner? Of course, but we'll both get harshly punished if I let her try to escape and she fails; if she gets away there's a very real chance Miss could have her found and killed, and of course my own fate would be sealed if Miss was investigated by the authorities. I try not to think about it.
For the next couple hours we sweep and mop floors, vacuum rugs, make beds, scrub the kitchen and bathroom fixtures, do dishes, and fold laundry. I take the lead, of course, since my vision isn't impaired and because I have a better idea of what's needed. I can't speak because of my own gag, but Charlie knows to follow my lead. When she doesn't, due to recalcitrance or confusion, it's on me to correct her with a light slap or two.
At one point, she's trying to dust under Byron's bed and throws down her admittedly silly feather duster in frustration. When I try to correct her she blocks me and tries to bowl me over. I wrestle with her for a few moments and get the better of her by grabbing her hair and elbowing her in the boob. I yank the leash and get her across my lap as I fall into a chair. I pin one arm behind her back, forcing her to use the other to hold herself up or else slide off face first into the floor. I pin the leg closer to me between my own to keep her from kicking me, the shackle keeping her other leg from a wide range of motion.
Breathing heavily from the fight, I sort of come to my senses. Holding Charlie like this, it's a technique Miss regularly uses on me. I didn't really think when I was pulling her into it. What am I doing? I know it's not right or fair of me to take my anger out on her, she's just as frustrated as I am. I've probably made my point already, even; her struggles have stopped and she's just panting. I can feel her breathing, her nylon bodysuit rasping against my leg. If I let her go she'll probably return to helping me with the dusting.
On the other hand; when's anyone acted right or fair to me? The sudden strength and depth of emotions I usually avoid feeling hit hard.
My free hand finds Charlie's ass, situated perfectly over my opposite knee and thigh. I stroke her cheeks, separated by the strap of her apron, through the black nylon, admiring her curves. Her chastity is unyielding against my leg; my own bulge may be softer against hers but it's harder than it ever is when provoked by Miss.
I've hit her before, but only when necessary to keep her in line or when directly ordered to. Now, deliberately, I raise my hand and bring it down squarely on one cheek. She yelps and her renewed struggle only provokes me further. I slap her again and then again, harder. There's a sense in me of relief, or release maybe. I pause for a minute, holding the whining Charlie firm and letting the feeling run through me where I've been so numb.
"What are you waiting for? Keep going." My blood runs cold at the voice from the door.
"M-Miss, I was only..." I meet her eyes where she stands to my right, barefoot and in a dressing gown. "Keep going?"
She inclines her head, otherwise still. She won't tell me twice. Did she see the fight on one of the cameras and come downstairs?
I square my shoulders, trying to recapture at least in part what I felt before. Then I spank Charlie again - once, twice, four times and more with measured strokes, trying to cover the area of her ass equally. I can't see the marks beneath the bodysuit but I know it'll be reddening by now. I finish off with four full-strength swats that have her yowling.
A belated sense of shame catches me when I stop and look to Miss for approval. She stops idly fondling herself with one hand and nods. "Good, Ada. Very good job. I just came down to tell you I've made some last-minute lunch plans. Byron will be dropping me off while you two go for groceries, so we'll be leaving soon. Finish up in here, put Charlie away and get ready." She doesn't wait for a response before leaving me to help Charlie down to the floor.
"You heard her," I say, brusque, "last room for today. Let's not keep her waiting." We finish tidying up Byron's room with Charlie on her best behavior. I don't know if that's because Miss acting oddly has her as disturbed as it does me, or if it's me she's scared of. Would that be so bad? It might make dealing with her easier.
We go back downstairs and I change Charlie out of her maid outfit. She won't meet my eyes while I put on her usual green hood and take away her sight again. I add the heavy leather hood and straitjacket before locking her in the cell.
I strip off my own uniform and take a moment to consider. I typically have some discretion in choosing an outfit for the weekly grocery trip. The main restriction is it has to be revealing, humiliating, or just plain slutty, which describes most or all of my clothes anyway. "Boobs out, belly out, bulge out - pick two and try for the third as well," as Miss puts it. Easiest with something skintight, or nearly so.
I settle on a romper and pick out lingerie to match. I consider going without a bra, but instead I go with a plunge bra that produces ample cleavage and leaves the center of my chest bare but for a thin band of lace at the lower sternum, the cups barely covering my piercings. It's smooth and rose pink with white lace trim: the matching panties are a string bikini cut.
The romper I've chosen is in a cotton fabric with a jersey-like stretch, cream white with vertical stripes of sunset pink and orange. I step into the shorts, which are only a couple inches long in the inner thigh. The upper part is closely fitted, with short sleeves and a collar. It buttons down to the waist with large white buttons, and I only do up two, leaving plenty of cleavage on display. Boobs out, check. It's mostly skin tight below the waist, and while the imprint of my dick is small and unobtrusive you could catch it if you were looking for it. Bulge out, check. My belly isn't bare but you can see its contours just fine. I'm counting it.
I add a silver choker and redo my twin ponytails. I eschew makeup, to save time and since Miss doesn't require it for these outings. Then I slip on a pair of sandals with inch-high wedge heels. The soles and heels are of a cork-like material while the strap is white fabric. I grab an empty handbag, small and pink and furry, and hurry upstairs.
I grab my grocery list from the kitchen and get to the entry hall. Byron is already there, but at least I haven't kept Miss waiting. I sit on the bench built into one wall, while Byron in his pinstripe slacks and short sleeves leans against the jamb of the front door. He nods at me and continues to scroll on his phone. Not having one myself, I use a pen to make a few last additions to my list and stick it in my purse.
I'm responsible for the week's meal plan and getting everything we need for it during the Thursday grocery run. Sometimes I miscalculate and we get a few things delivered, but if it happens too often Miss gets cross with me, so I make every effort to keep on top of things. Miss usually doesn't make work appointments on Thursdays, so it's often just me and Byron.
Miss comes downstairs and I stand up. She checks me out and nods, approving my outfit. She hands me the small wallet I take on these shopping trips, containing one credit card, my photo ID, and a card with a few phone numbers on it which I can call if I get lost somehow and can borrow a phone.
I shiver a little as we step out. It's a warm enough day, but there's an early spring wind to contend with. Still, after the long winter I'm glad for the sun on my skin, even if the thought of being seen in this outfit has me flushed.
The outfit comes off once we're behind the car's mirrored windows, at Miss's demand. "I have another accessory for you to wear," she whispers in my ear. Then she lays me over her lap and takes a small cane to the backs of my thighs. Not a punishment, she claims, just some marks to admire below the hem of my shorts. I can only hope the redness won't attract too much attention, and that any more interesting colors won't appear until later.
I get my clothes back on as we pull up to the restaurant. Her friend, Helen, greets her with a big smile and me with a groping that's surprisingly thorough for all that it only takes a minute and that we're in a public place. Helen thinks I'm adorable and is always finding opportunities to put her hands on me. She pouts, exaggerated, when Miss tells her I'm not staying for the meal.
I get in the passenger seat, wincing at the sting of my backside, and Byron and I are off. Our first stop is a big box store where I get many of the nonperishables on my list. Byron drops me at the entrance and leaves me to it. I can tell a fair few people there are eyeballing me as I dump rice and paper towels into my cart. A man in his late fifties is bold enough to hit on me, but at least he keeps a respectful distance. I've had guys like that corner me or put their hands on me in the middle of the crowded store. I really don't like having to make a scene.
Checking out, I tuck the receipt in my bag and try to ignore the brazen leers of the armed security at the exit. Byron is waiting for me outside. He leads me to the car and helps me load up the trunk. Then we're off to our other stop, a more boutique supermarket. I connect everything remaining on my list, ignoring the dirty looks of the bougie women shopping there. There's a cooler in the trunk of the SUV where Byron and I stick all the cold stuff.
We pick Miss up from the restaurant and Helen waves to me as we leave. "See you tomorrow night, sweetie!" she calls to me.
"Tomorrow night, Miss?" I ask once we're driving away.
"She invited us to a party at Adelaide. A bit last minute, but I didn't have plans other than going out to one club or another."
I give her a blowjob on the way home. Once the groceries are put away and Charlie is let out, Miss takes me upstairs to keep her company while she reads and plays a video game. I lie next to her on the couch, naked and dozing on and off. Miss appreciates me with a hand now and then but mostly isn't mean about it. It's always nice when I get a chance to catch up a little on the sleep I miss in my short, tormented nights.