Miss Taken
Part 2 of 6 | Good Girl
“Wow, Michael, this place. These people.” I’d remember some of the hints he’d dropped allt day, jokes really. No one goes to S&M play parties, has friends who are dominatrixes and used to hand-make high-end leather floggers and crops. No one does that, and no one knows anyone who does. That’s just not how life works. Only, I stood there in the foyer as Michael hung up our coats and couldn’t look away as a young brunette sucked a man’s cock. He wore a black three-piece suit, fitted, tailored, perfect for him. She wore nothing but black heels, and she was exquisite. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her, her perky tits, the curve of her ass as she squatted, balancing on those gorgeous heels, her lips wrapped around his cock as he leaned casually against the wall and checked his phone. He smiled at me, gave me a little shrug, and I mouthed, “Wow” before Michael was back and pulling me away.
“Ignore Arthur. He likes to give new arrivals a show.”
I didn’t even know what to say, and there were no words when we stepped through the double French doors and into the grand salon of one of the grandest houses I’d ever seen. The place screamed old money and lots of it. And it smelled of debauchery and sex. Sounds rang out from around corners and places yet unseen. Moans and grunts, sounds of spanking, a woman crying somewhere near the top of the staircase. She wailed after each slap of some invisible torture device, and I shuddered as I tried to imagine what was happening to her.
“Good girl,” he said, sliding his fingers out of my mouth. I watched his hand descend, so casual, so easy, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him to reach down and slip his glistening fingers into my cunt. I groaned as the pleasure washed over me, my eyes fluttering as I stared into the mirror, watched the young blonde woman in front of me let herself be handled by a complete stranger. It wasn’t happening. It couldn’t happen. It wasn’t me. Or was it?
Mouth open, chest heaving, his dark eyes feeding on me as I panted, my hips responding, grinding against his fingers. He fucked me, and I rode the waves of pleasure, silently, the merest sounds escaping my lips. No words, he’d said. Not a single syllable. And I couldn’t undo that spell, the way he laid that command softly across my mind, stifling me, gagging me without more than a simple gesture.
I watched myself get fucked, watched him take me there, right to the edge, my body responding, needing, aching, waiting for another word from him, and when it came, it hit me hard, a whimper slipping through the silence. “Not yet,” he said, withdrawing his fingers, my hips grinding against the cool air now, my clit crying for his touch. “Not yet.” He pulled his fingers up, drawing a long, wispy line of juice up from my pussy. I watched it glimmer in the low light. “Tongue,” he said, and I thrust my tongue out without hesitation, eager to taste my desire. “Farther. As far as it will go.”
I looked up into the mirror as he slid his fingers over my tongue and tasted my desperate obedience.
Exquisite!