Love Slave Part 3 (18+ only)
Just as promised, here is the first of two sections of Love Slave this week. This one is quite a long one (although not as long as my last Sunday Story), and it leads in nicely to the shenanigans of Part 4. But you’ll have to wait until tomorrow for that…
As always, any feedback is appreciated, either in the comments or as a message. You can contact me here. Happy reading! x
I finish in the shower, and begin to dress myself in the clothes I laid out the night before, remembering to get out my stockings, too, and put them on. It didn’t occur to me before, not having gone in the drawer for any knickers. I’ve got to concentrate on this meeting; I always do a good job for Mike. I begin ticking off mentally all the things he wanted ready for today—three options for a new website infrastructure, sample content for home page, drafts for the first five blog posts, product landing pages. Most of it has been ready for days; I’d never disappoint him. Last night’s work, well, I think I can get round that. It’s a draft. I’ll tell him something important came up if I have to.
I wonder—was it ‘up’? Was that cock of his in his hand when he sent those messages? Was he stroking it? Did I turn him on? How can him just being there make me feel as I did last night? Instinctively, pickng up my phone, I check the email; I check the texts. Nothing new since last night—or the early hours to be more precise. My stomach does an involuntary lurch as the thought bangs against my empty stomach lining that maybe the email I sent him was shit. That it hadn’t described the way I’d finger-fucked myself at all, and that it’ll never get a reply. Or, maybe he’s still asleep, and hasn’t opened it yet. Or maybe there’s a time difference—I don’t even know where he is. Or—or maybe I’m just trying to find a reason why the thought of the reply is making me feel a bit sick.
As I do up my skirt, the lining slides down over the front of my pussy. Its touch radiates hot tingles from my buttocks, circulating them around the bottom of my back, and they continue to travel upwards as I bend over the sink to clean my teeth. The porcelain’s sudden coolness sends a frisson of shivers into the tops of my legs, and I have to put out my hand to steady my legs, to stop my knees buckling. The front of my pussy digs into the sink as my mouth begins to fill with minty froth. Unlike any other time, it begins to arouse me. I press harder against it, going round and round with my toothbrush as I begin to rub up the front of the skirt lining, bumping up and over the curve of the sink.
The thought of him reading about the delights of my fingers, my pussy juices, my wet bed, creates a knot in the top of my stomach and a desperate need to feel something—anything—showing its appreciation for my efforts. I’m conscious of the dampness between my legs, how it sticks to my bare folds, and how I know it will reach the tops of my thighs before long. And that I’m wearing my professional grey suit. Why does this turn me on so much? I wrench up my skirt, grinding my pussy lips on the surface while I brush. I want to gasp, but my mouth is full, and the best I can manage is a guttural moan from deep inside my chest. I press harder, grind with more pressure. The wetness lets me slip and move easily and that painful pleasure in the build-up of my orgasm sends pins and needles through my pelvis. I’m almost there, gagging on my toothbrush as it rips through me, and I can’t scream because I’m frothing at the mouth.
Fuck! I’ve got toothpaste all down my blouse. Fuck! What the hell am I doing? I’ve never done that before. The heat burns my neck, the embarrassment burns me worse. I’m going to be late. I fish out my pale blue blouse instead—the one Mike likes; I wasn’t going to wear that, for obvious reasons—and I’ve got to change my bra, now, haven’t I? I open my bedside drawer and retrieve one. And a matching pair of powder blue knickers, too. The lacy ones. At least Mike won’t know what they look like.
I stand, staring at myself defiantly in the mirror, mascara in hand. What was I playing at last night? I’m meeting Mike, and discussing the notes he sent me, and the work I’ve done for him. That’s what’s important; that’s what pays the rent. I finish applying my make-up, remembering how Mike and I met when I fell down the stairs in the Union bar after someone bought me a pint of what they termed ‘a birthday drink’. It always makes me smile, and helps me put on my lipstick, shaping my lips into a sexy oval. Sometimes I wonder if, when we’re talking, smiling at Mike is a good idea or not.
There’s a text message, and I look, expecting it to be Mike, telling me he’s already at the restaurant. He’s a bit like that; straight-laced, has to plan everything down to the finest detail, but I always know where I am with him. And he was good to me, kind, when… I have a quick peek while I’m ferreting out my shoes from under the bed:
“Your email was hot. That degree in English of yours was a good choice, wasn’t it? I hit my own chest with my spunk as I read it. You’ve pleased me. I want a photo of the vibrator, laying where you laid.”
There’s a pang inside me; it radiates through my tummy and reminds me of the feeling I used to get when Dad called me a good girl. I try not to ignore the feeling. I have to learn to embrace it, but it lingers while that dreadful sick feeling of seeing Dad stretched out on that mortuary table invades my head. I don’t want that; not right now. I can’t afford to start thinking of him when I really need to be focusing on work. It’s in a feeling of disengagement with everything that I retrieve the vibrator from the drawer and lay it on the crumbled sheet. Just an automatic action as I bend over to kiss Dad’s cold face. And all I want is for him to call me a good girl again and give me a cuddle. I fight the tears; I haven’t got time to reapply my mascara. I can feel the panic setting in—I need to be out of the door. I need to get to Mike now.
“Every time I tell you, you’re to take a photo of your backside and send it to me. Your knickers won’t get in the way, will they—if you’ve done as you’ve been told. And I know you’re not incapable of taking selfies, don’t I, my beautiful little honeybuns?”
My face is burning. I daren’t imagine what kind of red it is, as I think of the pictures that used to live on the digital camera that Dad bought me for my twenty-first birthday, the ones I used to take of my tits—down my top, in my see-through cream bra, totally naked for him—and that we played for during our games of chess. An interesting take on strip poker. But I’ve got a good poker face; I never lost enough games to take photos of anything else. I bargained once for a photo of his cock when we’d shared a bottle of Taboo and we got so drunk that I couldn’t bear to touch the empty bottle for a week, but I lost that one. Never saw it during a game, except as a hard swelling inside his jeans.
But I was younger then.
I can’t do this photo thing. No—I’m going to be with Mike, for pity’s sake. I type “No.” And I’m going to send it. I really am. But I put down the phone and stand in front of the mirror, just staring. I reach up under my skirt, wiggling down my knickers and removing them from the end of my shoes. My chest is heaving; my face is red. There’s no discernible difference in the mirror beneath my skirt. I mean, no-one could tell I’m not wearing them. No, the discernible difference is inside me, where no-one can see, in exactly the same place it was before.
I turn sideways, and grab the back of my skirt, lifting it to reveal my bare backside to the mirror. I stand there for ages. I think it’s ages. It’s only a bit of skin, I tell myself. It’s all he’s getting. And it might be fun, taking pictures of my arse to send to him. Maybe I could get a biro and draw faces on it! And, if I get this meeting over with quickly, I might be able to get back even before he asks me to do it. I scurry around now: bag, shoes, door key, and delete the “No”, replacing it with “Hearing you loud and clear, Sir.” I wait for something back as I’m double-checking the paperwork, but there’s nothing. I begin to chew the lipstick off my bottom lip. Is this like yesterday? Shit.
But I haven’t got time to worry about it now. I leave the flat, every inch the professional minus her knickers, and make my way on the Tube. Six stops on the Central Line with my knees pressed firmly against each other, and a pink spot of heat in my cheeks every time one of the men in suits glances over at me. Can they tell, do you think? That my pussy juices are getting all over my skirt lining? Does this happen in their offices—do they recognise the signs? When a man with a rucksack and a pinstriped suit brushes against my arm I’m aroused so much that it takes me all my efforts to stem my orgasm, there, holding onto the bar in the carriage.
Of course, there’s a crush to get to ground level amid the daily workforce. There’s a delay at the exit gates—someone’s done something they oughtn’t and cocked it up for everyone trying to hurry up out of here. I rush as quickly as I can in heels, but when I turn just off Kensington High Street, there’s Mike, already at the restaurant as I suspected he would be, pacing up and down in front of the bar. I wave through the window and he waves back and goes to sit down at a table against the wall. I am just about to push open the door, when my phone makes that sound:
“You realise you haven’t sent me a picture of your little vibrator. I will have to punish you if you don’t send it NOW.”
Crap, I forgot about it. It’s still on the bed. There’s nothing I can do except tell the truth. Well, most of it:
“I can’t send it now. I’m in a meeting with a client.”
Immediately there’s a reply: “Oh dear, my little love slave. Then you will be punished.” And then—nothing. I breathe in deeply, watching Mike, smiling and flapping his hand to hurry me in. I drag a smile from the depths of my professionalism, put my phone away, and wave back.
I get my two-cheeked kiss, as always. And, as always, the second one lingers just a little longer, his lips brushing my cheek a little closer than strictly necessary to my mouth as he pulls away.
“Lovely to see you, Charlotte. You look very nice. And you look loaded down with paper.”
We sit down, adjacent to each other. “Good to see you, too, Mike. Charcoal grey suits you.” I smile at him. I shouldn’t. But something about the way he looks at me always makes me. And I know my lips form that oval that makes his cock stir in his suit. I’ve seen it happen so many times over the years.
Message. I dig my phone out like a frightened jackrabbit, and can’t help noticing the wide eyed stare Mike gives me.
“You all right?”
“Yes. Just a message I’ve been waiting for, that’s all. Do you mind if I—?” My chest is pounding. I already feel like a total idiot. I can’t do pictures. I just can’t.
“Who are you with? Tell me the truth, because I’ll find out anyway.”
Mike’s eyeing my face with extreme interest. Keeping my expression as nondescript as I can, I reply. “It’s a client. It doesn’t matter who it is.” I swallow hard, and give a little smile to Mike, directing my conversation to him, even if my mind is not so attentive. “I’ve printed it all off for you, knowing how much you dislike on-screen reading. But I’ll connect up to show you the layout ideas, if you’d rather.”
The phone bings as Mike responds, his hands already rifling the papers. “No, this is great. The screen shots are clear. I trust you.”
“Tell me who it is, or take a photo of your arse NOW.”
Mike’s busy reading. “It’s Mike. All right?”
An immediate reply. “HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. The fuckwit! Are you REALLY still in touch with him?”
I want to send a long message back, that Mike isn’t a fuckwit. He’s a lovely person. That I won’t have him ripping shreds off my friends or my clients. And that he can fuck off if he thinks he’s going to get any pictures from me. But Mike is asking me questions, so the best I manage is, “Yes.” And my heart sinks just a little as we discuss the content drafts, and he works through every line meticulously, deciding whether it’s what he wants, and debates the use of my semi colon in the fourth line. He’s the only person that talks to me about semi colons. I watch him ruffling his fair hair, greying just slightly at the temples, and squinting a bit at the print through his sky blue eyes, and it occurs to me that his eyes almost match my bra. My tummy does a little flip—I don’t know why. My phone bings again.
“God, I’m so sorry, Mike. I’ll put it on vibrate, if you want.”
He’s absorbed in reading the blog posts. “Nah, it’s fine. Answer it if you need to.”
I read, holding it under the table. I absolutely don’t want Mike to see.
“I’ve changed my mind about the arse pics. Your punishment for forgetting to take the vibrator photo will be much more apt right now. You DID forget, didn’t you? I know you did.”
I don’t reply. I concentrate on Mike’s questions, on the way he listens to everything I explain, considers it, smiles, orders food for us and insists on paying. How, when I get excited about the work his arm rests on the back of my chair and I sense his fingers pulling themselves back, so that they don’t end up around my shoulders. How his eyes lock onto mine, however briefly, when we have agreed about one part or another of the project. Like right now.
I change the setting to ‘vibrate’. It’s not fair to Mike. But I read the message:
“The first part of your punishment is easy, if I remember Fuckwit correctly. Go under the table and find a way to make him hard. Take a photo of it before you surface. However, if you choose not to, there will be no more punishment.”
I can feel my breath gathering force, and I try to keep my chest even; the blouse shows up everything. How the hell can I do that? To Mike? But there it is, in the text: the get-out clause. I don’t have to. What am I thinking—of course I don’t have to.
Buzz. I hold it under the tablecloth and read: “There will be no more ANYTHING. Think carefully. Take your punishment, honeybuns.”
Mike’s talking away, jotting down ideas on how to develop the website pages. And all I can think about is how, maybe, I can search some free image website with my phone hidden under the tablecloth, and find something. There’s bound to be a picture of some bloke’s hard-on somewhere. Or something that I can zoom in on and pretend is what he wants.
Buzz: “And don’t think you can fool me.”
I feel sick. The waiter brings two huge plates of full English breakfasts, and I have no idea how I’m going to put any of it in my mouth.
“Come on, let’s tuck in. We’ll look at the rest afterwards, over some coffees.” Mike begins to shovel the food in his mouth, and I feel guilty for making him wait so long—he looks as if he’s been saving up for this for a couple of days. He’s too busy dipping bits of hash brown into a runny egg to notice me send another message:
“Why not?” I struggle with a piece of bacon, when the phone buzzes on the table.
“Because I’m WATCHING.”