Thursday night she took possession of me again.
Around seven, she switched into formal with me. Had me refer to her as Mistress. Made me naked in heels and a collar. Ordered me to pour her wine. Told me to stand beside her as she sat and read a book on the couch.
She asked for water, and I brought her a glass. She looked at my nipples, chilled and pointy in the open air, and decided she was cold. I fetched her favorite throw and arranged it around her shoulders.
She took her time reading, letting me become accustomed to my slave nudity in the house, giving space for her formal assumption of dominance to sink into me.
It was perhaps forty-five minutes later that Mistress had me fetch my wrist and ankle cuffs.
She attached me to the wet bar.
It was as I’ve written before: I am bent over, forward, at the bar top, which is the depth of my midriff. My breasts hang over the other side. My legs are spread eighteen inches, my ankle cuffs attached to hooks at the base. My arms are extended the length of the bar, my wrist cuffs hooked at the ends.
Mistress sat on the stool beside me, the bottle of pinot noir and her wine glass between her and my extended body. With one hand she cupped and fondled my ass cheek, at one point slapping it lightly. Her other hand was under me in front, lifting my right breast and squeezing it.
We had talked already about my trip to Kevin’s. But now she queried me again about him, about my servicing him. “Do you prefer doing him while he’s standing or sitting?” she asked.
By asking, she was not interested in him or in the image of him with me. She was wanting to humiliate me by having me recount it intimately. She was watching me virtually in her mind’s eye. She was enjoying my sexual response vicariously as I told her and painted for her the picture of my sex with him.
“Standing,” I replied.
“And why is that?”
“I think you know,” I said.
She slapped my ass hard, and I groaned. “Of course I know. I told you to tell me. Again.”
“Yes, ma’am. With him standing, I can more easily get to his balls underneath.”
“You like sucking his balls, don’t you.”
“Yes, I do. You know I do.”
I felt her hand between my legs. Her fingers touched my open pussy lips from behind. One finger slid between my labia at the mouth of my vagina. I was wet, lots, and that pleased her.
“When you cock-suck him, do you prefer him to be already hard or soft and flaccid?”
I must have sighed. I certainly paused, not wanting to detail my every thought and feeling while giving fellatio to Kevin. Mistress slapped my ass again, this time harder.
“In-between,” I said. “He is usually in-between, semi-hard.”
“And why do you like that?”
“It arouses me to see him excited by me. But I also like how he grows more and grows harder when he’s in my mouth.”
Mistress poured herself another glass of wine. She sipped it, set her glass down on the bar top, and then sat quietly for a while. Her fingers found my pussy again, and she fondled me silently.
Amanda’s phone rang, and she went into the other room to answer it. It was a business call, after hours. She talked for a while, then went to her office to check something on her computer. More phone talk, then they finished.
She walked past me, still bound to the wet bar, and sat down on the couch with a file folder. She took some time reviewing the pages in it.
Later she brought the file to the wet bar and set it on my naked back. She opened it there, and looked at one of the reports as she sipped her wine once again. I know she is emphasizing my irrelevance to her focus and work and life. I am useful because my back is a flat surface for her file fiolder.
In time, while still reading, she fondled my pussy again, playing with me there at some length, making me hot and squirmy.
“Do you want me to make you come?” she said incidentally, the report still in front of her.
“Yes. You know I do.”
“Mistress, please let me come.”
“I’ll think about it.”
I felt in back her hand doing something. Then I realized she had the wine bottle there, between my legs, close to my pussy.
“You know you’re a whore, right?”
“Yes. I know.”
“Let me hear you say it.”
I paused, holding back, but just as long as I know I can get away with. “I am a whore.”
I felt the wet rim of the wine bottle press between my pussy lips. I moan.
“Why are you a whore?” she prompted.
“Because I love sucking cock. Because I am yours to have in any way at any time. Because I am available to others for sex.”
“Good answer. Seems you haven’t forgotten your purpose.”
The lip of the wine bottle pushes into me. I breathe in sharply.
“Do you think Kevin and his friends think of you as a whore?”
“I don’t know. Yes. Probably.”
“Say it out loud.”
“Kevin and his friends think of me as a whore.”
“Of course they do.”
She pulled the wine bottle back, setting it on the bar top.
I sighed, regretfully.
She got off the stool and knelt behind me. I felt her tongue licking my pussy lips. Her tongue slid between them and she lapped at my sex. I moaned, now hopeful for more, much more, but she stood, saying, “A good vintage,” and then walked away, leaving me unfinished.
Later she unshackled me and handed me a glass of wine. “Sit in the easy chair,” she ordered. “Legs open. I like seeing you so slick.”