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Little Mall Princess
"If that were me, I would have found a way to twist him up and then get him underneath my fucking foot."
When I heard the girlish voice make this statement as I stood there transfixed on a brand-new HD TV on display near the entrance to the mall Sharper Image outlet, I ignored it, thinking that such a direct statement from such a pretty young voice must be directed at someone else.
Afterall, I was a thirty-something dude in Saturday afternoon clothes who'd run into the mall for a second to return a DVD player that ejected anything I put into it. And made strange burnt plastic smells when it actually did run for a while.
But as I watched the end of a major news story unfold on that HD screen before me, I realized that the girl and I were watching this as a pair of random congregants before the electronic dissembler of a breaking development. And just we watched this one dissembler, a random pair, chancing to have simultaneously passed by this mall TV as the world was finding out that the young girl who'd been kidnapped in Monterey a few months back had been found alive, but in the hands of a sadistic creep who'd brainwashed her into assuming the role of his "wife" and sex slave. The cops had actually been forced to pepper spray her in order to arrest the sweaty old potato of a man that had stolen her from her parents' house!
I turned a bit to my right and acknowledged the small woman who had made the comment, and as I did, she repeated it with a bit more gusto.
"If that were me, I swear I would have found a way to twist that ugly guy up and then get him underneath my fucking foot. Men are easier than that." As she finished this sentence, she looked up at me, happening as she did to catch the exact moment when I was about to turn my gaze away from her so as to demonstrate the proper level of indifference.
But I was late, which she sensed, and which spurred her on to another sentence. "I know you're a guy, but don't you think that a guy could be handled by a pretty gir, if she has a brain, so that she could convince him not to rape her?"
Strangely forward question for a teenage girl to ask a stranger out of the blue, but I felt the "Go with this" switch flip in my head as I smiled at her. I came up with what I thought was a cogent repartee in "Yes, if a woman knows what she's doing, a male is fairly susceptible to her whims. As a matter of fact, if women decided tomorrow that they found men who walked about on their hands to be more attractive than stand-up guys, 90% of the males on Earth would be slapping palms to floor within a year."
She smiled back and stuck out her hand. I shook it, and raised an eyebrow.
"I just moved here," she said as she released my hand, "and I guess I got here just in time to see the end of this story. That girl will eventually recover, but if she knew how to play that guy who took her, this would have ended up a whole different way. Anyway, I'm Martha. Like the nineteen-hundreds, I got named Martha." She smiled up at me and I instantly liked the quirky smile and heavy eyebrows this little woman featured amongst the allure of her sparkling deep green eyes.
"So... what's your name," she asked. She put her hands on her hips as she looked at me. She was probably about sixteen, maybe seventeen. She had a very expressive face, bold but feminine, with a certain intelligent sarcasm playing upon her features. She wore a little lipstick and some fairly heavy black eyeliner, but she let her freckles live on her cheeks, where they, well, worked. She wore a black top with long tight sleeves over a torso that was definitely not thin, but was instead, in a word, lush. Her breasts were large and she carried a bit of a soft padding around her belly and hips. I saw that her hands were very small, and that she took care of her long nails. She'd painted them a glossy black, and she wore many silver rings. Regardless, her hands were so tiny that the black nail polish failed to afford them any air of threat. They looked like painted and cute little claws. Her wrists were circled with dozens of silver and beaded bracelets.
"My name's an old-style name, too, Martha. I'm Hiram. Grandpa's name. But I go by my middle name, which is Mike." I found myself smiling back at her as she held her gaze. Her eyes truly did sparkle.
"Well, my dad dropped me off here, cuz I told him that the mall's as good as any place to find out what kind of people live in a new town, so I guess I'm here shopping without money... as usual," she crossed her arms over her chest, kind of squeezing her breasts up subtly from underneath. She may have thought it was subtle, anyway, but I'm not stupid. She was puffing them up. At thirty-eight, I knew when a girl was accentuating one of her features while attempting to remain less than obvious. I only smiled internally this time. "Good to meet you, Mike," she finished.
The live update on the television monitor that had been the catalyst for this conversation now switched back to regular programming after promising the usual "updates as they develop." I knew that both the girl and I wanted to continue this conversation if for nothing else than that we were both bored and knew nobody local, and were craving some socialization. After all, she was twenty years younger than I, and quite pretty, and I was your average-looking late-thirties divorced guy in sloppy clothes trying to get in and out of the mall as quickly as possible.
As luck would have it, a new topic of conversation was presented to us when the regular show was resumed before our eyes. Rosie O'Donnell was hosting her show then, and when the feed cut back into it she was standing next to a dominatrix in full leathers, holding a paddle, standing over her slave, who was waiting on his hands and knees for the spanking that Rosie was interviewing his mistress about. Rosie was firing off serious questions, and the tall woman in the glistening catsuit was happily answering them. She was his wife, and he her husband, yes, but they lived a lifestyle Female Domination lifestyle. He acted as her total slave and dedicated himself to her happiness, and she gave him the life of submission that he found healthy and rewarding. Very simple, because she herself enjoyed having a husband who devoted himself entirely to her, and she had a personal fetish for control. As the show cut to commercial, she began to demonstrate how she liked to addle her slave. Rosie claped, the audience hoted loudly, and I stole a quick glance over at the intriguing Martha to see that she was enthralled at what she watched, but also had a knowing smirk on her face. The commercial break interrupted, a local pest-control place, and Martha asked me, "Have you ever heard of this? It's like a new thing, where the husband is his wife's slave, and they both like it."
"Yes, I've heard of it," I replied. I quite well knew of this sort of relationship; in fact, the reason I had lost my second wife was a direct result of trying to talk her into a marriage like the one being discussed onscreen before me. "It's, as you say, becoming more common. But not many couples are ready to go on TV and tell people about it." I chuckled as I ended this sentence to see if she'd return it, but she was already thinking about her next sentence.
"I think that the world would be better if women had as much power as males. Like, if women were able to lead countries that have violence and division. I think women are better at resolving conflict. I know that there have been some, but I don't think that if Israel and Palestine and Iran were run by women that we'd all have to worry about being blown up at any given time. What do you think... um, Mike? Mike, right?"
"Yeah, Mike. Right, Martha. I think you're right. If women wanted to, they could control the world."
"Yeah, but too many women fail to recognize their powers. I mean, no offense, but most guys are really, really easy to get to, um, to handle. I think I mean, they're easy to... dominate?"
Dominate? Yeah, she'd said it. I didn't let the realization flicker on my face, but as she started walking slowly toward the mall's main corridor while she began her next sentence, I stepped right along beside her without a thought.
"Yeah, the word is 'dominate.' If a girl knows a guy wants to taste her, she can give him just enough at just the right time to keep him in line. Want a Starbuck's?"
Her non-sequiter broke up my response. "Yeah, on me," I replied with a giant dopey smile.
"Good, follow me," she said as she grabbed my hand and pulled me. She walked briskly as she let my hand fall from hers with a hint of a final parting squeeze. I stayed right behind her as she wove through the mall crowd, my eyes on her luscious buttocks. She was wearing a black wool skirt, longer than her knees. It had a charcoal-gray windowpane pattern woven into it, and it was a bulky skirt, not even designed to flatter the female ass. Nevertheless, I could tell that she had a nice round ripe and generous rear-end. Her legs were covered with black tights, and on her feet were black Keds with white laces. Old low-top sneakers, well-battered and worn.
She grabbed a table at Starbuck's, one of the few that wasn't filled with shoppers, and sat upon the single stool. "Oops, guess you gotta stand, Mike!" she said with a glimmer of humor as she hopped up onto it. "But, you gotta buy drinks anyway. Get me a venti iced coffee, black, with two Splendas. And a side shot of espresso, black."
I looked at her with a raised eyebrow, querying her wordlessly about whether or not she was going to add a "please" to this, and knowing that her response would add either way toward an answer to an as-yet-unasked question in the air. She simply looked down at the table and picked up the promo plaque, pretending to read it as a devilish smile crept across her face. "You know, Mike, you should already be in line getting me those drinks. I wanted them five minutes ago. Didn't you see how fast I led you here?"
"Yeah, I saw, Martha. I'll go get 'em."
I got in line for drink orders. For this most-intriguing Martha, I purchased a big coffee and a small thimble of Starbuck's jet fuel, to-order. I got myself a regular coffee with extra cream and sugar.
I returned to the table to find Martha on her cell phone. She pointed to the space in front of her to indicate to me to put her drinks down, and as I looked to her eyes for a word, she turned away a bit and covered her phone. "Mike, I'm on a call, here, please just stand there for just a sec, I'll be done in just a minute. Open my coffee for me, though."
I stabbed a hole in the lid of her iced coffee, unwrapped a straw, and stuck it in for her. She took it from me as she delved into conversation, turning her back on me as I stood there sipping. I heard her end of the conversation, though, and tried to make sense of the snippets. "No, I'm out, and I don't know when I'll be home, so have dinner without me. No, by myself. I don't know, I really have no idea, and I'll call in a while. Jesus, Ma, just have another drink and get to your couch, I think "People's Court" is on. Yes, bye, bye, see ya, bye."
She flipped shut her phone and looked at me again, the twinkle returning to her eyes as she covered her mouth expression by sipping her drink. "That was my mother, " she unnecessarily told me, "and she wants to play responsible by calling about where I am. But in an hour, she'll be skunked on the couch, and I'll walk right past her when I get home."
"That's too bad, " I start to say, but she shakes me off. "Nope, no big deal. Been that way ever since she dumped my father a couple years ago, and we moved here to get farther away from him, because he kept on stalking us. But he's too broke and drunk to even think of coming all the way here. And mom holds down a job, so she's not totally out of control."
I didn't know what to say, so I just said, "Well, that's good."
"New subject," she came back brightly with. "We were talking about women being able to rule the world if they would only use the power that most of them ignore, or are ignorant of, or just don't use because they themselves like to be submissive. Do you think there are more submissive women than men, Mike?"
Wow, I thought to myself, immediately following that with a mental red flag printed with her age: seventeen. But I could answer safely... "I really don't know. I don't have much experience with that kind of thing."
She drew a large gulp through her straw, and reached icy emptiness. She held the cup out toward me. "Really," she said, that smirk still there, "go get me a refill."
I took the cup and didn't realize until I was already in line that she'd forgotten "please" again. When I'd purchased her item, I returned to her seat and decided to tease her a bit by holding the cup out to her but saying "What's the magic word?" playfully as I yanked it back from her outthrust little hand. She simply raised an eyebrow to me and said "Oh, Mike, stop."
She put out her hand and I gave her the coffee.
"Um, no straw, Mike?" she asked as she tipped the top toward me. I fetched her a straw, unwrapped it, and stuck it in to the hole she held out for its entry.
She pursed her ips over the straw and sucked. After a long sip, she said "Okay, tell me about you. Why are you here, where did you come from, why do you bite your nails?"
I blanched a bit and instinctively curled my hands to hide my nails. Agh, I hated the habit, but found myself unable to stop. They weren't all short and disgusting, or chewed up, but they were obviously a set of bitten-down fingernails.
"I come from Connecticut, but I've lived most of my life in Florida. I came here because my wife at the time got a good job here out west," was my answer.
"Uh, not quite done. 'Wife at the time'? Where is she now? And why do you bite your nails?"
I gave her a "Who are you?!" look, but of course continued as she sipped demurely. The top of her straw was smudged with the dark lipstick. "Well, she's gone, we're divorced. Have been for three years almost. And I guess that's why I bite my nails."
Martha wagged her finger at me. "Nope, there's more to this. First of all, I'll bet that yo've been biting your nails since you were a kid, and second of all, I bet she left because she didn't like to be making more money than you, because she's not comfortable dominating. I'll bet she didn't want to be the dominant wife, deep down. Am I close?"
Again with her knowing smirk, she sucked up the last of her second coffee, then held the espresso out to me. "Take the cap off for me, Mike."
I took off the cap and gave it back to her, even though it would have been nothing for her to have popped off the plastic lid herself. Interesting.
"So, am I close?" she persisted sweetly.
I contemplated my answer. She suddenly cut in. "Don't even answer. Take me shopping, okay?"
"Uh, well, where do you want to shop?" was my witty reply. I hadn't been spending much money for the past three years. The house was paid for, my job was a well-paying exercise in anonymity, and I realy hadn't gone out much since my wife had moved out and away. I could take this girl with the drunken mom and intriguing conversation for a little shopping.
"I don't know, around the mall. I need new sneakers. Wanna help me shop for some new sneaks, and buy 'em for me?"
Oooh, now this was getting good. The downstairs tingle started with her innocent treading upon my strongest fetish. Ah, the foot of woman, my most-treasured subject of fantasy. I attempted to portray ambivalence. "Uh, sure, I guess yours are a little worn out."
She stuck her feet out to her side so that I could see just how worn her old Keds were as she waggled them. I fell into transfixion staring at them, and she carefully watched my response.
When she pulled her feet back underneath her chair and out of my view, she looked right at me and said "Buy me all the stuff I want, and I'll sneak you into my house and fuck you tonight, with conditions."
I dropped my jaw and blurted "What!?" at her in surprise.
"I said, Mike," and she now tickled my forearm with one of her well-manicured black nails, "that if you take me shopping for whatever I want, you'll be coming home with me tonight to sneak past my passed-out mother into my bedroom, where I'm going to teach you how I like to get fucked. With conditions., but you'll definitely get laid. Sound like a deal?"
All I could say before my defenses and judgment crumbled to the ground was "How old are you, Martha?"
"How old are you, thirty-nine?" she countered.
"Yeah, and you...?" I stammered back.
"I'm too young for you to fuck without taking a risk, put it that way. But... I am in high school. So, just trust me, follow my lead, because I'm experienced, and I already know how you are. If you play this right, I think you'll satisfy one of your fantasies tonight, I'll be happy too, and then we'll see whatever happens from there. Take me shopping, you already made up your mind. Follow me."
She popped up and scurried away, and I kept up with her as she dove into a few stores, my credit card coming out a half-dozen times to pile up three bags of tops and skirts and other solid-black items of clothing. She only wore black, apparently, other than the white laces on her sneakers and the chrome-pyramid belt around her waist.
"Okay, just new sneakers, then let's go have fun," she spoke up to me with a happy smile and an out-of-breath voice. Speaking of her breath, I caught a whiff and felt the immediate jolt to my heart that sweet fresh girl-breath hammers me with. "I just need a new pair of these, and then I'll drive to my house. You follow behind me. I'll show you where to park, and how to sneak into my bedroom. You got a cell?"
"Yeah, I do," I replied.
"Good, Ill check my mother, then you just wait for my call, and then come in through the back door I'll show you."
"Okay, Martha... are you sure? Because you could just keep the clothes and change your mind."
"Oh, Mike, believe me, I know that if I wanted to, I could have you maxing out a credit card right now in return for just the couple hours with me. But I think I like you. I don't like dominating young guys."
"Okay," I eagerly spoke, answering her smile with my own, "Let's get you some sneakers and then let's go fuck."
"Yeah, but remember... my way, my house, my rules!"
"Yes, your way, I know, that's just fine," I replied, and that was all until we reached the shoe store she wanted to buy her new black Keds from.
When we walked in, a little guy in a referee shirt smiled too obviously as he approached the voluptuous teenager. "Can I help you Miss?" he leered. She looked down at him. She was five-foot-six, and he was about five-four. "Nope, I have my little helper right here," she told him as she grabbed my waist and squeezed me into her soft body. I picked up a hint of her scent; no perfume, just the fresh scent of a ripening young woman tinctured with the reminiscent scent of girlhood. Her breasts, well-covered by her loose top, were even larger than I'd suspected. I felt her right one against my left arm as she pulled me close.
"Okay, Miss, just let me know what you decide and I'll get it for you."
"I want to try on a few," she replied, "So we'll get you in a little while, because I want to take my guy home soon. Okay?"
The little clerk looked at me and cackled. "Lucky frickin' Pharoah," he told me. Pharoah?
Martha sat in a fitting chair and told me to kneel down so I could help her pick shoes. She pointed a glossy black nail to the floor-space before her seated self. She extended her right leg. "Take off these old shoes, Mike."
I unlaced her right sneaker and gently removed it from her foot. As I slid it off, I saw that she wore no socks, just had bare white feet of pure porcelain inside. The intoxicating fragrance of girl-foot invaded my brain, and whether she perceived this or not I became hers for the moment, hers without any remaining resistance.
"Other one," and she put her left leg out to me. I gently unlaced it and slid her bare foot free. Her feet were small, but formed perfectly and with exquisite, delicate detail. Lightly veined, highly arched, aligned small curly toes, and the glossy black nail polish causing that incredible alabaster-black enamel contrast.
"Okay, I want you to get me a few sneaks to try. Let's start with those."
I looked to where she pointed and saw a pair of black leather rock-climbing grip sneakers. "I'm size five," she said, "what are those?"
There were no fives on display. I got the attention of the little leering clerk and he fetched some from the back.
"Put them on me, Mike," said Martha, "and lace 'em up so I can try 'em out."
I was probably a bit too worshipful as I carefully slid the cute little shoe over her outstretched right foot. "I like watching a guy kneel before me, Mike," she giggled. "Do you like being where you are?"
I thought it was a rhetorical question, so I didn't answer. She pulled her foot away and repeated herself. "Well, do you?"
And that was the moment I cracked. Freud would understand why I replied with "Yes, Mistress," instead of the "Yes, Martha," that I was absolutely intending to say. I corrected myself quickly.
"Too late, I heard you. Look, I'm horned out, we gotta go. I'll take these but I still need Ked low-tops, or maybe Converse. Find some size five black ones of either and get them to my feet so you can buy 'em for me and we can get out of here."
I ended up buying both pairs as we fled the mall toward the heat that deliciously awaited.
==Chapter 2. In Her Room
I followed behind her old Mustang in my year-old BMW 535 convertible. Her car was a 1990 four-cylinder Ford junker, from the ill-advised years that that company had decided a no-power Mustang would be appealing. She was stuck with one. With red paint that was long-faded.
After a few miles and a few turns, she pulled over on a suburban road under an Elm tree. She beckoned me with a curled finger as she stepped out of her car. I noticed that she'd taken off her new Keds, and was barefoot on the grass roadside. She saw me looking down at her feet and offerred "Oh, yeah, I like to break in my new sneaks with a little natural dirt before I wear 'em. Otherwise, my feet smell too much like new shoe rubber, you know?"
I nodded. Good god this girl was ridiculously incredible.
"Okay, Mike, see that house right there?" She pointed through the tree to the back of a small white wooden split ranch that needed a roof and a paint job. I nodded yes.
"Well, that window with the light on upstairs is mine. I'll call you on your cell when the coast is clear, and you go through that back door, take a left, be quiet cuz my mother will probably be snoring on the couch as you pass the living room door. Go to the end of the little hall, go up the stairs to your right, and my room's the only room at the top except for my bathroom."
"Okay, I'll wait in my car, Martha."
"Yeah. And you can have my old sneakers, I was just going to toss 'em. But bring up the shopping bags with my new stuff."
"Yes, Martha, okay."
"And one last thing... when you get to my room, let's not go through the nervous formalities. I'll be on my bed, and you just let me watch you strip naked. Right away."
"Okay, Martha."
"Call you as soon as I'm sure she's out. Could be now, could be an hour."
"I'll be waiting."
She drove away and I saw her headlights flashing off houses around the block until they gleamed from the end of her driveway. She shut down her rattle-trap and I got a quick glimpse of her as she ran inside the modest abode.
I returned to my car and sat inside. I held my cellphone in one hand as I tried to interest myself in sports radio. Her smile, her eyes, her body, her feet, and her promise consumed me.
Only a few minutes later, my phone vibrated. I swiftly brought the lighted window into focus; it was her! I answered, almost dropping the phone in my fumbling eagerness.
"It's me, Martha!" I said.
"And it's me. She's passed out in her room, done for the night. Come on up. Bring my clothes. And remember... what will you do when you get to my room?"
"Stand in your room and just strip."
"Yeah, and after you strip, kneel next to my bed. You'll start by showing me if you know how to worship my pussy. If you can't do it right, there's not much point in going a lot further."
"Yes, Martha."
"You know you want to call me Mistress, Mke, so just let go and do it."
"Yes, Mstress," I replied, my voice completely whipped.
She hung up, and I grabbed her shopping bags and walked briskly to the back door. Inside, the house smelled of old cooking odors and the must of summers without air conditioning. I took a left into the hal, and found the narrow staircase at its end. I gently ascended and saw light from under one of the two doors fed by the upper landing. I twisted the knob and ducked inside with her bags of booty.
What a scene. Inside, the room was imbued with Martha's scent. Her small bedchamber was eclectically decorated with young-girl items like posters for rock bands and brightly-colored stickers on everything. In contrast she had added touches of her emerging adulthood. A pair of handcuffs hanging from one bedpost, a painting of a woman wearing a masquerade eye-mask, a coiled bullwhip nailed to one wall. The room was lit by a single lamp covered by a faux-zebra fur shade. On the floor were unmatched area rugs and a quilt-style coiled oval rug. Her clothes and possessions were strewn about everywhere. Her bureau and dresser drawers were half-open and spilling a wild array of papers, books, clothes, gadgets, trinkets. On her nightstand were so many water glasses that they crowded out her alarm clock. The time was nine PM, on the nose.
Martha herself lay on her bed with her legs crossed and her head propped against several pillows. She was sitting halfway up, halfway lying down. She was fully clothed. Her arms were crossed under her breasts, pushing them upward in a healthy mass of lascivious softness underneath her loose woolen top.
"So, are you going to stare, or strip, Mike?"
I looked at her and kicked off my shoes. "Are you going to..." I began, but she placed a finger over her lips.
"Mike, it would be best if you just let me do the talking. Just strip. And by the way, with the door closed, my mother can't even hear my stereo on full blast once she's passed out. So we can talk and make whatever other noise we want, as long as it's on."
She turned on her side and reached for the power button of her cheap little boombox. I dropped my shirt into the pile in front of me, leaving only my jeans and sox. She asked me what kind of music I liked.
"Anything, Martha, as long as it isn't country."
"We'll definitely get along, Mike." She had scrunched up her little nose at the mention of country music. From her boombox came the opening notes of "Sandman" by Metallica.
"I figured I'd play something old for your benefit, Mikey," she told me with that huge smile of hers. Metallica. Old. And as I thought this, I suddenly felt a chill, realizing that I was stripping in the bedroom of a girl who hadn't even been born when this song had been released. Momentary pause, and then I unbuckled my belt, stripped my jeans away, and stepped out of my BVD Jockeys.
"Um, okay," said Martha as she caught her first sight of my cock. It was semi-hard, still dangling, and while it is not big, it isn't little. It's average. I wish it were huge.
"Well, kneel by my bedside, Mike!"
I knelt by the side of her fouton. It was covered with a fairly colorful Mexican serape'. Her pillows were covered with mre faux animal fur. Cheetah, it appeared.
She stood up on the bed and faced me. Her bare feet pressed dents into the futon. She began to lower herself until she was squatting before me, using her hands to balance herself by gripping my shoulders.
"Mike, do you want to be my slave for the night?"
I felt the interior explosion rip through my brain, run at light speed through every synapse in my body, hold a full conference in my balls that voted unanimously after less than a second's deliberation to direct my mouth to answer "Yes, Mistress, yes."
"Then shut up, do whatever I say, and we'll go from there."
"Yes, Mistress."
"I'm going to remove my skirt now, and I'm going to let you into my cunt. You'll get your face in there, and you'll show me whether you know how to use your tongue and your lips on a female's clit the right way. I may have to pull your hair a little to keep you on target. Follow my lead. Make me come, and then I want to fuck you. Don't make me come, and at least you have a nice car to drive home in."
She slowly lowered her skirt until the woolen mass fell to the fouton. She kicked it away to join the rest of the mess. She stripped off her black tights and tossed them to the side of the bed.
She wore black panties, too. Not lacy or frilly, just simple panties in a shiny jet black.
She smiled into my gaze as our eyes locked, her green now a sparkling emerald color. She sank to the futon and lifted her hips. Her legs were spread so that her knees stood up at my sides and her pretty bare feet gripped the edge of the bed. "Hook your thumbs around my panties, and very very slowly slide them off," she softly directed.
I did, pulling the satiny whisp away from her pelvis until she could lower her ass to the bed again. I slid them a few more inches away and saw my first glimpse of her young pussy. She did not shave; she had a nest of black fur lightly framing the folds of her glistening slit.
She scooted forward as I pulled the panties off her ankles. "Hold them to your nose, slave," she said, using "slave" again to my excitement, "And breathe in my scent."
I took a deep breath through her underthing and my cock surged to full hardness as her essence filled my interior.
"Take another, then toss them behind you, and make me come."
Moments later, the muskiness of her moist vagina pressed against my lips, and the taste of her sweetly acrid pussy coated my tongue. I found her clit and began to work up in pressure and speed, circling, lathering, feeling her pulse, reading her responses, worshipping at her alter as only a true male slave who has every desire to please his mistress can truly do. As she began to buck, as her breath began to speed, I knew I would be succesful. As my mouth filled with more and more of her juices, I knew I was near.
As she began to moan lowly in her bucking and grab my hair in her fists to pull my mouth into her crotch, I knew it was going to be soon.
And when she ripped out a high-pitched "Yeah-h-h-yeah-h-h-yeah-h-h-" while tearing at me hair and crushing my chin and nose, I knew I had done it. A sudden gush of her hot sweetness confirmed... and the rush was tremendous. I relished the flavor of her strong juices, and took deep breaths as she let me pull back a bit. My entire naked body was flushed and sweating. My lips were bruised and reddened. My tongue was a bit strained and raw.
She relaxed back a bit and smiled at me as she calmed her breathing. "Yeah, that was okay, slave," she cooed.
"Get up on the bed with your head that way," she said, pointing to the headboard, "face up."
She shuffled her body so that her head was toward the foot of the futon.
As we lay there juxtaposed to eachother, she grabbed my hand and looked down the bed to where my head was propped against the headboard. "You're naked, and I still have half my clothes on. But, I like the power of being fully clothed while my slave is serving me naked. Does that excite you slave?"
This girl was incredible; she hit all my nuanced fantasies. One of my first erotic dreams had been as a sixth-grader, dreaming that I was naked in school in front of all the girls while they were fully clothed, taunting me. "Yes, Mistress, it's one of my oldest fantasies."
"Really? Well hand me my panties and tights."
I reached over the side of the bed and grasped them. She lay there and put them on. "My skirt, now."
I reached for her skirt and was able to hook it with my finger. I pinched it and tossed it to her, where she caught it and put it on. She reached behind her head and found her new Keds.
"I'm even going to put on my shoes so that I'm completely clothed and you're completely naked for me."
She slipped each one on, then thrust her feet down toward my face. "Tie them tight."
I tied them, pulling tighter and tighter on the laces as she urged, until I thought that they must hurt, but apparently she liked really tight sneakers over her bare feet.
"Now, slave, I want you to tell me all about your favorite fantasy while I rest my sneakered feet on your chest. Stay hard."
She gripped my cock and I immediately jutted back to full hardness. She began to slowly work it as I held her sneaker soles to my lips. I kissed gently as she asked me her questions.
==Chapter 3. Fucking, Her Way
"Slave, just lick my right foot for now," she said as she waggled it a bit before my face. "Snuggle up a little so I can get it right in your face."
I slid up a bit on the bed so that the sole of her brand-new sneaker was flush to my face, the heel in my mouth. I sucked on the fresh white rubber.
"Isn't it cool, slave, that you paid for these sneakers, and now you're licking them with your tongue for me?"
"Yeth, Mithtreth," I answered without breaking suction.
"Anyway, slave, before I fuck you, I want to get to know more about you, see if you're the right kind of guy to be my slave toy. When was the first time you sucked on a girl's foot? Bare foot, or shoe? Tell me everything. Be honest in all your answers."
I thought back as I continued worshipping her teenage sneakered sole. I recalled the very first time, and it was with my little cousin Kris when I was no more than four or five. I began the story. "Well, Mistress, when I was very young, I think four years old, I went to my cousin's house for a week with my family. All the adults and kids were going skiing, but Kris and I were too little, so we stayed at the house all day while our grandmother watched us. Anyway, my cousin, who is a year older than me, wanted to play a Princess-Servant game with me, where she dressed up in a little costume she had, and she gave me all sorts of little orders, like "Get me a soda" or "Kiss my hand". She also sat on my back and rode me around like a horse. I remember loving it. Out of the blue, though, as we were simply sitting on the couch watching TV, she attacked me playfully, wrestling. She got a good headlock on me, and I kind of let her win. Soon, she was sitting on my chest with her feet on my wrists. She told me she'd let me up if I smelled her foot, and she held the little bare thing over my face. I just pursed my lips and kissed it, and she stuck it in my mouth. It went on with lots of flushes and giggling, both of us sensing that we were doing something bad, but liking it too much to stop. My grandmother came to see what all the noise was, saw my cousin's foot in my mouth, and made us stop, then made me bend over the end of the couch for a spanking. She had Kristen watch as my shorts were pulled down to my knees, than she spanked me with her favorite weapon, which was a vacuum-cleaner attachment, you know, a plastic tube with a flattened end. And she spanked hard... but I got a kick out of being punished in front of my little girl-cousin, who giggled all the way through the hard spanking. Grandmother made me stand in the corner with my pants down for an hour, and reminded me that boys aren't supposed to kiss girls' feet."
My Mistress of the moment, Martha, put her heel back into my mouth as she smirked at the story. I resumed sucking her sneaker until her next question.
"After that, did you kiss Kris's feet again?"
"Oh, yes, that whole week, any time Grandmother was away for a while, Kris would stick her foot in my face and I'd kiss and lick it. And we spent the whole vacation wrestling or lying on the couch together all entangled."
"Did your grandmother catch you again?"
"Yes, Mistress, but only because Kris told me that she wanted to watch me get spanked again, and told me that she was going to tattle on me. I protested, but not very hard. Next thing I knew, Kris was running to Grandma yelling "Mikey kissed my foot! Mikey kissed my foot!"
Mistress spurred me on with "And, she spanked you again?"
"Well, yes, but more. To punish me, she made me strip off all my clothes and kneel before my little cousin, who sat on the couch and was just gleefully laughing at me. Grandmother made me kiss my cousin's feet while she beat my ass red with that plastic paddle. And then, two naked hours in the corner."
"Cool," said the mall girl that had me captured in her spell. "Do you still see your cousin?"
"Yeah, every few years. She lives in Hawaii now. She's married and has kids there."
"When you see her, do you still play with her?" asked the brunette seventeen year-old with the dark makeup and fresh sneakers.
"The last time I saw her was when I went on a trip to Hawaii with my wife. At one point, Kris and I were in the kitchen cooking while my ex and Kris's husband went out to the liquor store. Kris's kids were out, leaving us alone for a while... the liquor store was an hour away, round trip. They live on the Big Island, and have a remote house. Anyway, Kris gave me a glass of wine and said "Hey, my feet kinda hurt, I've been standing all day. Do you still do feet?" I took the wine, smiled at her, and dropped to my knees as an answer. She was wearing sandals, and she's grown into a beautiful woman. I started with little pecks to the top of her feet, and before long I was flat on my back while she sat on a barstool dipping her toes into my mouth. We didn't stop until we heard our spouses pulling into the driveway. It was the only chance we got, but it was a great hour in that week."
Martha put her sneaker sole back on my face, and her heel received my worshipful tongue again.
"Slave, do you like being punished by girls too, or do you just like being humilated by them? Or being submissive?"
I consider myself to be more of a submissive to women than a masochist. I like to do for a woman whatever she wants, not dictate my fantasies to her. I tried to explain. "I like to completely be controlled by a woman. If she likes to give pain, then I want pain from her. If she likes to be slaved to, shopped for, pampered, then that becomes important to me. I just want to be dictated to by a female, and then completely serve whatever idea she has that she thinks will make her happy."
"Okay," retorted Martha, "So if I wanted to get a backrub, you'd do that, or if I wanted to tie you down and whip you with my belt, you'd do that, and either one would make you happy?"
"Yes, Mistress, it's all about the female. My needs don't matter."
"Well, tonight I feel like fucking. My way which means you do everything I tell you to do. After I come, I might feel like doing something else to you, or I might just want you to get the fuck out. Fine with you?"
"Yes, Mistress, as I said, whatever the female wants," I assurred her. My cock was growing to its full hardness.
She looked at my six inches and smirked. "I wish your cock was a little bigger, but I like your submissiveness."
She opened a drawer in her nightstand and drew out a handful of twine. She leaned forward and wrapped a loop around the base of my balls. "I'm going to tie up your little penis while you tell me about the most extreme thing you've ever done for a woman. Have you ever licked dirty feet?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Have you ever licked a girl's butthole?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Have you ever been tied up and whipped, like with a real whip?" She asked this as she tied knots into the twine she was now coiling around the base of my hardened penis. She'd finished looping up my bals so tightly that they bulged away from my crotch and were purpling. My nuts were clearly visible under the tight skin of my scrotum, which shone in its encasement.
"Many times, Mistress Martha."
"Well, I've never whipped a slave. I've spanked 'em and paddled 'em, but never whipped one. I have a whip, though," she said, and pointed to the bullwhip nailed to the wall above her bed. It was a long, coiled thin black leather lasher. Dangerous if used wrong, as full hits to human flesh with one of those things could rip away the skin. "Have you ever been whipped with a bullwhip?"
"No, those are pretty dangerous if used too hard, Mistress."
"Well, okay, not now anyway. How about with a belt? Ben whipped with a girl's belt when tied down?"
"Yes, Mistress, many times."
"Okay, more extreme now... I've seen trampling websites. Ever been walked on?" She had finished wrapping the twine coils around my cock, and she finished with a pair of knots. My entire junk was completely bound and rigid. She left a few feet of loose twine, and now she lay back against the headboard and pulled on it like a cock-leash, slowly increasing the pressure and smiling as my cock and balls were pulling toward her and away from my body by a full inch.
"Oh, yes, I have been trampled."
"With or without shoes on the girl?"
"Socks, bare feet, high heels, sneakers, boots, you name it."
"Well, I want to trample again. I did it once to a guy about your age that I picked up at the mall, but he made too much noise and I was afraid Mother would wake up, so I stopped. I want to trample you after we fuck, unless I'm tired. So be ready."
"Yes, Mistress, I will be ready."
She yanked a few times on the cock-leash, then told me she wanted to pull it very hard. She told me to look into her eyes and smile until the pain was too much, and at that point, to stop smiling.
I gazed into her beautiful eyes, and began to fall in love with the seventeen-year-old beginning domina. She pulled the leash, hard, and the twine dug into the base of my scrotum. My genitals were now separated from my pelvis by two inches of straining skin. I kept smiling as her smile grew wider. Her eyes sparkled, and her lips parted to reveal her teeth, which needed some work. Poor girl, I thought as she tortured me harder.
"I'm going to hold your junk right here, slave, and have you talk some more. If you can't take it, stop talking. I'm also going to play with myself, so you stare at my pussy while I do."
Martha unzipped her skirt and lifted her ass so that she could push it down a bit. Her panties, black, went with it, so that her pussy was exposed to me. She spread her legs a bit, and I could see that her cunt was wet, glistening through the black fur of her healthy bush. She plucked a vibrator from her nightstand and began buzzing away with her left hand while holding tight to my cock-leash with her right. The pain she was inflicting to my bound genitalia was electric, sharp, deep, satisfying.
"I'll continue now... while I lay and you suffer and talk, slave. So you've been trampled. Good. Ever been kicked in the balls by a girl, like, on websites they call it "ball-busting"... you ever been busted?"
"Yes, Mistress, many times."
"Wow, slave... tell me about the last time. Describe."
She was playing her vibrator a bit more intensely now, and I could her the motor buzzing a bit more loudly as she dug it into her clit a little harder, circling with the end. I told her about the last time I had been busted by a female. "Well, Mistress, it was by my ex-wife. And she didn't like to do it, so it was just a few soft kicks."
"You wished it was harder, slave, right?"
"Yeah, Mistress..."
"Well, I've always wanted to do it, so maybe you'll get that chance. I been looking at those ball-bust sites a lot lately, and it seems like the perfect expression of female superiority for a male to just stand there and get kicked in his silly balls by a woman. Really silly that we can hurt you guys so easily, and that the thing that controls you is stuck right there on your bodies where they can get kicked by any old girl any time she wants."
She went silent for a minute as she tugged a bit harder on my balls as she began a slight bucking of her hips in time to her buzzing toy. I could see her pussy lips, red, swollen, her inner lips exposed and wet. A ine of her juice disappeared into the dark cleft of her anus cup below.
Eventually, I think she came, and she turned off her vibrator, setting it down on the nightstand beside her. It found a place in the clutter behind her alarm clock and on top of a bunch of balled-up Kleenex in an overflowing ashtray. She picked this ashtray up, dumped it into a used cup, and lit up a smoke as she moved on to another question.
"Slave, beyond ball-busting, the websites get a little more... out there. Have you ever done 'out-there' things as a slave boy?"
"Yes, Mistress... I think you'd call some things I've done 'out there'".
"Know what a golden shower is, slave?"
"Yes," I chuckled, as her tone indicated she thought I might not. "Yes, Mistress, I do."
"Huh. Okay, what is it then?"
"It's when a Mistress pees on her slave."
"Okay, and you've... been peed on by a girl, slave?"
"Yes, and I've also had some golden cocktails, Mistress Martha."
"When you drink the girl's piss?" she blurted back incredulously.
"Yes, Mistress."
"You've drank a girl's piss, you're saying."
"Yes, yes I have, Mistress."
"Then you know what a brown shower is, too. Had any brown showers?"
I had not. But it had always been a fantasy. A deep, deep filthy fantasy. "Not yet, Mistress, although I came close once. But I changed my mind and stopped the girl after the golden cocktail."
"Who was she, slave?"
"Oh, just a call-girl. Years ago."
"So basically, slave, you paid a girl to come over, whip you, make you lick her feet and then piss in your mouth?"
"Yeah, Mistress, that's about the size of it."
"So you total slaves really do exist. I thought the Internet sites were all because the guy got paid. But you'd actually pay to have a girl mess you up."
"Yes, Mistress."
"Well, I ain't no whore, but I like nice things. Maybe I'll use you and abuse you and make you take me shopping. But I don't know yet. Because I haven't fucked you yet. You need to be good at it, like you were at eating my pussy. Then, I might want to make you be my bitch again, slave. Want to fuck me?"
"Oh, yes, Mistress, yes I do."
"Well, I like to do it a certain way. You tell me if you still want to, after I tell you how that way is. I think you will. Listen up, okay?"
"Yes, Mistress," I replied as she settled a bit further back, giving my balls a tight yank in the process. They jiggled and a sting ran through, but my cock was fully engorged and the head reddish purple, fully swollen.
"I like to ride on top of my slaves, and I like to keep the cock-string in my hand. I like to yank it while I ride you, and when I come, I yank it very hard. I like to hurt my slaves as I come, or get close. And I like to make them say things while I fuck them, repeat vile things I give them to say, humiliate them. All okay so far?"
"Yes, Mistress." Sounded excellent to me, I thought.
"But there's one other thing... I like to spit right in your face while I fuck you. Like, in your eyes, face, mouth, make you swalow my spit and all. I really get off on it. And when I finish fucking, I like to pull off right away... and I don't want my slave to come. This is the big thing. I want to get off you after I'm satisfied, then tease you for a while until I let you come. Whenever I feel like it's time. Then I let you kneel at my feet and jerk yourself. Or not. Is that going to be okay with you slave?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Finally, if you come inside me, I'll rip off your balls. You can't come until I get off you and let you. I'm a total tease."
"Yes, Mistress."
"Then let's go."
She clambered up and removed her skirt. She kicked it away where it landed amongst the assorted clutter that covered her bedroom floor.
More twine came out of her nightstand. She tied my ankles to the bedposts, than used the dangling handcuffs to secure my wrists. I was now spread-eagled, my leashed purple erection standing at attention. She unwrapped the coils around my cock, but left my balls tightly wound and bound. With the leash in her hand, she straddled my cock and looked into my eyes as she sank richly onto it. Her incredible heat engulfed my penis, and her pussy gripped tightly as she descended. She sank fully so that her mound was flush with my pubic bone, and said "Remember, I'm going to humiliate you while I use your cock... say 'I'm a filthy male piece of shit,' slave."
"I'm a filthy male piece of shit"
She began to slowly rise up and down, her thighs strong, skin creamy. The smell of sex filled the air as she exuded juices. Her sweater covered her breasts, but I could still perceive their large lushness underneath.
"Keep saying it, slave, as I fuck you. Do not come!"
She began to fuck a bit faster as I chanted "I'm a filthy piece of shit" over and over. She suddenly stopped and bent forward over my face. She spat right into my eyes, then did it again. She began to moan and piston short fucks rapidly as she spat over and over onto my face and I continued repeating that I was a filthy male piece of shit. I began to feel the rise of my orgasm, and I fought it back mentally, urgently.
The girl sped up now, spitting, fucking, pulling on my cock-leash, losing herself a bit with the abandon. Soon my face was coated with her saliva, and I felt it running down my cheeks and neck. Soon she sat straight up and used her thighs to violently use my rigid cock, sliding speedily and jerkily up and down, her head back, her wrist jewelry clinking and tinkling, her scent filling my nostrils.
She came with a long, deep moan, and as she did she pulled on my balls incredibly hard, so hard that the noose around the base slipped over one of my nuts, painfully setting it on fire as it squeezed through. She bucked and came again and as she pulled the leash even harder, it let go completely and slid with a sharp snap completely off my genitals. I held back a huge rushing orgasm, biting my own tongue hard to stave it off, my eyes squezed shut with the effort.
Martha wound down after her second orgasm, and after a minute of heavy breathing while sitting with my cock buried in her dripping cunt, she stood up and off. The cool air chilled her juices upon my staff. She stepped off the bed and regarded this as she wiped her pussy with a tissue, carefully mopping it. She told me "Open your mouth," and as I did, she stuffed the sopping tissue into it. "Eat it, slave," she ordered. I did.
She pulled on the first loose skirt she found on the floor below her. She also found a discarded pair of her panties, but instead of putting these on as I expected, she dangled the crotch over my nose. My cock firmed up again as I breathed in her rich girl stink. Her panties were incredibly fragrant.
"I only do laundry once in a while, slave. I just pick up whatever panties or socks that seem okay to wear from off my floor every day, so I end up wearing them a few times before I wash them. Don't they smell great?"
"Yes, Mistress," I replied. My wrists and ankles were a bit chafed inside the twine and steel restraints, I noticed, as I bucked a bit in horniness while she teased me with her underwear.
"Now, slave, I'm going to tease you before I let you come. IF I let you come. You'll stay tied up and hard. Do not come until I let you up and say you can."
For the next hour, she was unrelenting in her teasing. She used her panties and socks to my nose. She stroked my cock with her bare hands, or with her frilliest soiled undies until pre-cum dribbled, and then she would stop for minutes while watching me with an evil grin. She straddled my face and played with my bound cock while loweing her asshole or pussy to my lips. She sat on my thighs and rubbed her wet pussy against my cock while she played with my face with the soles of her sneakers, and then her bare feet.
Then she got off and stood over me. She told me that she was going to read for exactly one hour, and that while she read, I would lie in bondage with her panties on my face. If I stayed hard for the entire hour, she'd let me jerk off while I was allowed to kneel before her and worship her bare feet. If I went soft, she said I would be untied, and I'd have to go home.
I tried. I really tried. But with her out of my sight, and without being able to touch myself, my cock started to wither after fifteen minutes. Even with her luscious soiled panties over my nose. Even though I could see her beautiful body, her face in a book. Even though the book was "Venus in Furs".
She looked at my weak little penis as it flopped over, said "Well, no come for you tonight, at least not here."
She untied me and told me to get dressed. She sat in her computer chair, watching as I did so. When I finished, she pointed to the floor before her sneakered feet, and I knelt there. She caressed my face, which was dry now but tacky from her dried spit, and said this: "You have my old sneakers in your car. Take those home and dream of me while you play. Come inside them. Do this as much as you can for a week. In a week, meet me at the Starbuck's at six PM, the mall Starbuck's. Bring the sneakers in a bag. If there is a respectful amount of your cum dried inside them, I may invite you back to my room for a second chance. Or I may not even show up. But let that be your dream for the next seven days. Okay?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Also, if you really want to entice me to show up next week, then you need to get me a very, very nice gift, let's say by Wednesday night. When I get home Wednesday night, I want to be greeted by an anonymous gift from you. Have it delivered to this house... addressed to me, but from you anonymously. If it's really, really special, I just might show up in a week at six o'clock to see how much you lust for me, how much you've respected me with your cum inside my old stinky sneakers."
"Yes, I will Mistress, what gift shall I get you?"
"I won't tell you. You decide how much you want me to show up. Blow me away, Mike... and maybe I'll call you 'slave' again. One last thing."
"Yes, Mistress?"
"Pick out three pairs of my panties from the floor here. For the whole week, any time you are alone, one of those panties has to be in your mouth."
"Yes, Mistress." I stepped over things as I found three pairs of panties that looked like they had some good stinky stains in their crotches. I pocketed this precious booty.
"Now, Mike, you can go. Be quiet. Maybe I'll see you, maybe not."
But a week later, crusted sneakers inside a paper bag I carried dutifully, having sucked the panties completely clean of her scent over the seven days, when six o'clock came and went, she did not show.
The brand-new BMW convertible with the five-thousand dollars in cash inside an envelope in the glove compartment that I'd had dropped off, paid in cash, registered in her name, taxes paid under her mother's name, and which had cost me half my savings, had apparently not been enough of a gift for her.
I drove home in utter dejection once eight o'clock arrived and the Starbuck's closed down for the night. I decided to spin by her house like a stalking loser. As I passed, her driveway was empty. I went around the block, and as luck would have it, came up behind the new car is she turned in front of me at a stop sign. I followed a few lengths back as she pulled into her yard. There were two people in that car... she drove, and an older man was her passenger.
I slowed to a stop and just gawked at the pair; he was already on his knees before her as she stroked his hair. She looked up and saw me. She told her slave to wait a moment as she approached my car. I lowered the passenger-side window.
She looked in at me and simply said "You spent half your savings. I know because I checked. All I was worth to you was half?"
I started to apologize, but she turned away after a few words, final words, as she walked away forever.
"I will find my slave, and he will not be such a cheap slave. Goodbye... and remember that I'm an innocent little girl in the eyes of the courts. Thanks for the car, stupid fool. Go away, Mike. Good luck finding that perfect mistress."
And her fresh conquest followed her inside that modest house where my life's favorite memory was made.
I drove away and resumed the endless search.
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