To Obey Her

by Jillian Boyd

  Annette nodded vigorously, then realised that Sabrina was not looking at her.

  “Yes, S, yes, I am wet,” she stated so there would be no confusion.

  “Show me.”

  Annette almost came with the pressure of Sabrina’s hand on her uppermost thigh, as she slipped her hand under the table and dipped her finger between her legs. She wanted to keep stroking her damp slit, but she did not if she wanted to make herself come. Sabrina did not control her orgasms, but she did not like to come unless Sabrina was involved.

  Putting her hand back on the table, the candlelight made her wet fingertip and nail shimmer.

  “Let me taste your arousal,” Sabrina said, squeezing her thigh even more possessively.

  Annette nodded before dipping her finger into Sabrina’s cocktail, and swirling her finger around it. She sucked her finger after she finished stirring Sabrina’s drink, and tasted her arousal acutely, along with the sweetness of the whiskey and sour mix. She reached down to pull her charm from her stocking, then ran her finger over the smooth material of the stocking, satisfied she only felt the small snag. Neither she nor Sabrina liked imperfections about her appearance.

  When they went home, Annette was saturated with desire. Sabrina was slow and deliberate about her seduction, which Annette loved until she needed to be touched. Sabrina pulled Annette’s legs onto her lap on the couch, and stroked her thighs absently until she paused on the snag on her stocking.

  Annette froze.

  “Where is your bow?”

  Sabrina continued to stroke her stockinged legs, her finger circling her anklet within her ankle.

  Annette sat up, and reached for her anklet, fishing through her charms. The bow charm was missing.

  “It must have come loose this evening when it snagged my stocking...”

  Sabrina’s face was undisturbed, which frightened Annette.

  “You know I like you in bows...” Sabrina started.

  “I am wearing bows, S!”

  Annette desperately pulled up her dress to show Sabrina the studded bows at the top of her stockings. She fingered her garter belt to show off all of the tiny satin bows embroidered along the lace. Pulling her dress off of her as if it were on fire, Annette rubbed the bows that were on her bra. Opening her bra from the front, she released her full breasts and held them so Sabrina could see the tiny studded bows that pierced her nipples.

  “You lost a bow, Annie, and that was careless of you. It is like you would throw me away. You know what the bows mean to me...to us...”

  Sabrina smiled, and caressed Annette’s hard nipples so delicately that Annette sighed with pleasure. And wished she could take back that breath almost as soon as she exhaled it. Sabrina tugged her nipple, before she kissed it.

  Annette’s clit thumped. She wanted to make love, but she was not naïve enough to not know that she was going to have to be very patient. Sabrina took off her blouse and skirt, placed them beside her bowler hat on the coffee table. She still wore a tie about her neck, silver and decorated with shimmering seraphs. She grabbed Annette’s hand, and they walked to the plush love seat in the corner. Annette’s heart and clitoris throbbed, each with their own rhythm, as she gulped. The love seat was by a window that was thinly curtained, and anyone that walked by could possibly see them.

  In public, Sabrina would never touch her. But in her house, she loved to make love in front of open windows. Annette liked it too; she did not care who saw them making love.

  “Open your legs,” Sabrina said, before she walked away from her.

  Annette loved to look at Sabrina. Her curvaceous form made her mouth water for her softness and her taste, and Annette chewed on her lower lip as she watch Sabrina’s ample backside move out of the room. Her eyes were riveted to Sabrina’s large nipples as she walked back into the room with a red velvet box. Sabrina knelt between her legs, resting her hands on Annette’s thighs to spread them even more. She kissed the inside of Annette’s thighs as Annette squirmed, her clit twitching so much. Annette wanted Sabrina’s lips further up, even as her eyes were fastened on the sight of those lips as they kissed the inside of her thighs. She panted, when Sabrina pulled away, to sit back on her heels and open the red velvet box she had placed between her own knees.

  Annette panted even harder, when Sabrina took a tiny studded bow clamp out of the box. Sabrina smiled and kissed her between her legs.

  “Your pussy is so pretty,” Sabrina said dreamily. “It will be even prettier with a bow on top.”

  Annette clamped her legs without meaning to - she knew that would disappoint Sabrina. Her face still undisturbed, Sabrina pulled her legs apart patiently and rubbed the bow of the clamp over and over her clit. Annette stayed perfectly still. Perfectly. She knew that she had to be perfect so that they could get past this and make love. She never confided in Sabrina, but when she was this turned on it felt almost good to have the clamp on her lips. The burn brought her close to climax - but she held back her orgasm until she and Sabrina made love.

  Annette discovered with Sabrina that she had a very high pain threshold. She loved it when Sabrina slapped her breasts, or spanked her backside with her hands or a belt. Was it weird that she loved the sensation burning when she was turned on?

  But the clamp did have a bite, and it took a while before the burning stopped and the pleasure began. Annette had learned a great deal of discipline with Sabrina. A discipline she had never imagined she’d missed. Taking a deep breath, she sat up straight like Sabrina liked her to, with her breasts high, as she put the clamp on her.

  “Oh, you are so pretty with that bow on your pussy. Do you want to see how pretty your pussy looks to me, Annie?”

  Annette nodded, even though it made the clamp feel even tighter. She felt like she would faint as Sabrina got up and walked away. She felt a fire between her legs, as she watched Sabrina’s sexy curves sway away from her. Sabrina returned with a gorgeous antique mirror, framed in ornate gold.

  “There, there is my gorgeous Annie’s pussy,” Sabrina cooed. “Admire your pussy, Annie - hold the mirror and look at how pretty you are.”

  Holding the mirror was excruciating, but Annie held it. Straight. She had to admit, her own bejewelled nudity excited her - tiny studded bows at her nipples, and a larger, decadent bow just under her clit.

  In her reflection, Annette thought she saw someone looking at her in the window. But she blinked, and saw nothing - no one.

  “Hold the mirror better, straighter,” Sabrina said smiling, and standing behind her. “Yes, yes, Annie.”

  Annette held the mirror up, at an angle exposing both her bowed nipples and labia seen in the mirror. Sabrina took it out of her hand and knelt before her. They kissed. Annette had craved the sweetness of Sabrina’s mouth, her whiskey sour sweet mouth on hers. Sabrina caressed her breast with one hand and then picked up the mirror again so they could see what they were doing to each other; almost like a camera, like taking selfies - which was something Annette knew Sabrina would not do. They both liked looking at what they did to each other while they were making love. But neither one of them wanted to take pictures or film themselves. They valued their intimacy too much for that.

  Sabrina looked up at Annette, before she carefully removed the clamp from her lips. The fire raged from the intensity of sensation. Annette slumped in the love seat, as Sabrina caressed her breasts. They breathed softly and in time with each other, as Annette adjusted to the intense sensation between her legs. It would be a while before they made love, but she was ultra-patient now that Sabrina had taught her how to be.

  The next morning, when she woke up, Sabrina was not beside her in the bed.

  Annette walked slowly into the living room, where she saw Sabrina at the window.

  “You are going to need to clean that later,” Sabrina said, walking away and letting the thin curtain
go.

  Annette stared at the glass, and then smiled nervously at the jets of come that were on the window. There had been someone looking in on them from the night before, then... it was Annette’s pleasure to clean it up. She caressed the come on her side of the window and only stopped when Sabrina wrapped her arms about her waist. When she turned around to face Sabrina, she could see the reflection of the Delvaux replica above them and the come in the window.

  “Annie...” Sabrina started. “You’re not wearing a bow, Annie.”

  Blinking in confusion, Annette suddenly remembered taking her nipple rings off the night before and... not putting them back in again.

  The Show

  Hannah Lockhardt

  We’ll call it art. All we need is a chair. I’ll sit neatly, sweetly, knees together. Of course I’m wearing a dress - of course!

  It’s dark.

  No.

  A single spotlight. Purest white.

  I feel your hands on my shoulders. To begin with I can’t see ahead of me, only the halo of heat and white that blinds.

  I’m wearing the gown laid out on the bed as I rose this morning. The dress is white. Virginal. If I could see myself in the mirror I know I would look like a tired china doll. There are petticoats bunched under it, protecting my hands from fiddling with my garter belt, which shields silky underthings. Teal. Because - why not? And this dress should be obscenely low cut. Tight across my chest, pressing lace and ribbons against my breasts that swell and appear fuller to even the least attentive eye. You have dressed me, dressed me to compliment you. The crisp white shirt and charcoal trousers buttoned high on your waist. Long leather boots. A short jacket of a fine, dense material that almost melts to the touch. You set my hair in curls and combed yours flat, over your eyes - above your ears. You made sure everything was in its place before we began.

  Your hands slide from my shoulders, down over my breasts, over my stomach, over my thighs and to my knees, pushing them apart.

  “For your audience. Your audience wants to see you. And they must see all of you, before the night is through.”

  I wonder who you could have invited to watch. Who would wish to be in the audience of this girl’s punishment? The punishment she so craved. How does one arrange an event like that? Do you run a modest advertisement in The Times or The Telegraph, inviting a mixed gathering of specialists to witness the debasement of Miss Camomile Frye, daughter of Mr Reginald Frye of His Majesty’s Government? That name alone could raise an army, and - though it is dreadfully immodest - my own dark looks could rouse a second, rowdier army. The promise of exoticism. If I listen above the rustling of my skirts and pulsing heart, I hear their coughs, their shifting in uncomfortable plush seats. Or do I?

  I am beautiful. I am to be admired. The swelling crowds think my perfection is only for their baying tongues, but in truth it is for you, my love. My absolute. Only you.

  One finger rises. Pure, velvet silence descends and you turn to our audience.

  “Honoured guests, Good Evening. Are we well? Are our bellies and our glasses full? Have we attended this soirée with a keen interest in debauchery? In devilment? In the sensual and unusual? Why, then, this may just be suited to your depraved purposes.”

  You remove your short jacket, place it carefully over the back of my chair, and you allow your hands to travel a second time, from my shoulders, down over my breasts where your fingers dive deeply into the neck of my frock and pinch me, painfully.

  “Here we have a young lady. A lady of noble birth, of that there is no doubt, but who, in truth, is a base, filthy harlot. A slut, of the highest order.”

  You kiss my cheek, a blister forming there in my mind and making me ache for you all the more. Your hands move from my chest down over my stomach and thighs and under my skirts.

  “See how she displays herself for you? How she delights in it? Would this fine audience like to see this little slut’s cunt?”

  A murmur rising to a roar of appreciation and expectation.

  “May I have a shout of yes, good sirs?”

  A cry of “Yes, her cunt!” erupts through the narrow building, the audience panting, rubbing their own parts in anticipation. Wet, slippery, sexless sounds meet my ears. Who knows to which bodies they belong, and who would even care?

  “Very well.”

  You trail one finger over the damp material of my underthings and step in front of me and kneel. Hands furrow under my skirts once more and fingers pull at my skin and peel the knickers away from me. As they come to my knees you press them to your face and breathe heavily, sucking at the fabric and the residual body heat it contains.

  Having taken them from me and laid a gentle kiss on my inner thigh, you hold them aloft to the writhing mob.

  “A slut’s token! What am I bid?”

  “A penny!” “A guinea!” “A sovereign!”

  “Twelve guineas!” An imperious voice sails above the crowd and your eyes gleam.

  “Sold! To his Lordship for the princely sum of twelve guineas! Would his Lordship like to step up and claim his prize?”

  An elderly figure ascends the stage with some difficulty. One of my father’s friends, perhaps? This character leans to kiss my hand with full, feminine lips and takes the soiled bundle from yours, holding it aloft like a trophy. The crowd cheers, and the figure departs.

  “A gentleman most pleased with his spoils! And now, where was I?” you say, feigning innocence, confusion to the situation at hand.

  “A slut’s cunt!” comes the cry once more.

  “Of course, her cunt, you clever, clever creatures.” You turn to me, smiling, all at once commanding and tender. “Spread your legs, girl.”

  I can only do what I am bidden, stretching my thighs until I am tilted, displaying myself, and the audible gasp at such lewdness makes the aperture twitch in want of a fucking which only makes the crowds louder and lean forward in their seats.

  “Such a good little whore, so willing and compliant she is.” The love in your voice makes my thighs slacken. I want nothing more to touch myself or to have you touch me or better still, to touch you, to have you naked before me so that I can press my mouth to you, but I know this cannot happen yet. Later, much later, I know I may have you, but for now, I belong to them, with you my circus ringmaster in your high boots with the heels that make you tower over me and your words a whip on those who challenge you.

  “And here we have our slut’s cunt. Her bare, beautiful cunt for you to admire. And admire it you must. And think of those who have gone before you in seeing it, how many have laid their hand or tongue or cock” - here you suppress a laugh - “to give her pleasure or supplement their own. Imagine the smell, the taste, the heat of such a cunt. His Lordship knows it all, don’t you, sir?”

  There is a laugh and once more my knickers are held aloft, now entwined in slim, elegant fingers, bedecked with diamonds.

  “Although, perhaps, its perfection is not yet fully realised?” You turn to me. “Hold out your hands.”

  I do so.

  “I believe you are indebted to your audience, and should reward them with a closer look, perhaps? Don’t you think you ought to take a hand to your swollen, dripping cunt, and hold it open for the ladies and gentlemen?”

  I falter, perhaps too overcome by lust and excitement, and fumble at my own parts as though I had never known I had them before that moment. When, at last, I have myself in hand, as it were, for the first time that evening I feel a little overwhelmed and unsure. My cunt feels wetter and more volatile than it ever has before, not even when you first took me to bed, and I had burned for you over the course of a month, not knowing how to satiate myself. The appreciative, almost ghostly moans of the assembled masses make the heat within me rise and I revel in it and, though I cannot see you, I feel certain it envelops you too.

  “And
what now? Now you have gazed upon the source of feminine wonderment, where should I take you now, you good and kindly folk?”

  “Her titties!” comes a crowing, mannish voice from the back of the hall. “So that we may suckle on them.”

  “Ah, a fellow after my own heart! She does indeed possess a fine and full chest.” And once again you kneel before me and unfasten the white, laced front-piece of my gown, working quickly, your face to mine.

  “My love, I want you so badly I fear I will fuck you here with the heat of the footlights on my backside,” you whisper.

  “And why not?” I ask. You grin, dipping your head just enough to brush my lips with yours without the knowledge of our guests and pull my corseted stays apart so my breasts appear all at once as if by magic, my nipples already stiff with desire.

  “And now you have your wish, good sir. See her fine, fine flesh in all its glory. See how she writhes under your gaze. For this little slut wishes only to frig herself until she is sore and satisfied.”

  By way of demonstration you punish me with the tip of your finger applied gently to the slit, which I am certain will almost gush in desperation. Barely a half an inch goes in and the pleasure is torturous, unimaginable to anyone but those who have experienced it. My skin rises and falls in gooseflesh at your every movement.

  “See how she pines and bucks to feel the full length - or even the fist! - inside her. Filthy, wanton girl.” I watch your own chest rising and falling, the buttons of your collared shirt almost bursting, gaping so I can see the body beneath it that I so desire.

  “Suckle her!” comes the cry again, and you swiftly apply your tongue to my stiff little duct, almost drawing it to a larger, sweeter fullness and making me pant as it falls from your grasp and I truly think I might die from the charge inside of me.

  “Sweeter than strawberries and cream.” You declare to a great whoop of delight from the crowds. “I only wish that you could all have a taste, and lick her like an ice cream cone. Now... up.” And I stand. No sound, not quite. The low hum of static crackling.