beneath my cheap blouse. My bra is
unpadded, made of a thin white cotton, and will do nothing to hide my nipples
if it stays this cold.
I cross my arms in front of my chest and make my way out of
the vestibule. There is a light coming from a formal reception room to my
right, and all the other doors are closed. Feeling inexplicably embarrassed, I
creep into the reception room.
I am alone.
There’s a warm light, and expensive looking, stylish black
furniture that nevertheless looks very uncomfortable. I perch awkwardly on the
edge of a black sofa, smoothing my black skirt beneath me, and look around. I
guess I expect to see the sorts of things you normally see in a doctor’s
office: a reception desk, a secretary or something, magazines.
There’s none of that. Just this muted gray room, with its
soft light and a mild chill in the air. My nipples are still quite awake.
There’s a door in the far wall, besides the opening onto the main hall that I
had come through, and it’s open just a bit. Not enough to see anything, just
enough to tease.
It seems rude, somehow, that there’s no one here to greet
me. To explain all this.
I’m debating whether to go sneak around, my arms wrapped
tightly around me, when I hear it. A soft, light scraping noise. Awkward,
arrhythmic. Scrape, scrape, scrape, followed by a shuffle, what might be a
groan.
It stops for a moment. I’m looking around, certain I heard
it, but feeling kind of crazy, when it starts up again, slightly louder this
time. Scrape, scrape, scrape. Then the same pause, and the same shuffle.
I sit motionless in the cold, my arms tensed at my sides,
heedless of my nipples poking through the thin fabric of my skirt. I’m usually
able to identify sounds, but I have no idea what this is.
It’s come closer. This time when the scraping stops, a tiny
little dustpan is pushed into view in the open doorway off the reception area.
I giggle a little bit – a dustpan? I was afraid of a dustpan?
And then comes the girl.
She’s nearly naked, covered only in a thin black bikini, a
leather collar around her neck. Her pale skin shines in the soft light. Her
hands are bound behind her back with more black leather, and she carefully
holds a small dust broom in her mouth. She’s gripping the handle with her
teeth, her painted red lips stretched wide. Slowly she shuffles forward on her
knees, until she’s in front of the dustpan, and then, with aching slowness, she
sweeps a bit of dust forward, her breasts swaying heavily near the floor.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
I must gasp, or maybe I say something, because she pauses
for a moment and looks up. She looks me in the eye, and it almost looks like
she smiles with that broom handle stuck in her mouth.
Then she leans over, and pushes the dustpan forward with her
nose.
I can’t help but stare at her. I don’t know what I’m
supposed to feel. How are you supposed to react to something like that?
What I begin to feel, though, is a warmth down below. And my
nipples, hard now, beneath my thin blouse, ache to be touched. I squirm a
little in my seat, rubbing my bottom into the rough fabric, scraping my nipples
against my bra and blouse, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.
I don’t know how long I watch her, but she’s nearly out of
sight when I become aware of another presence.
A man. In the doorway that was only partially open, now
fully open, his hands clasped behind his broad back. He wears a white dress
shirt, starched collar, tucked into a trim waist. Over six feet tall, with
cold, bright blue eyes, and black, slicked back hair, with just a few streaks
of gray. He must have been an athlete with that build, that confidence.
He’s the single most intimidating man I’ve ever seen, and
I’m not sure why. I can’t read his expression, but he’s been watching me, watch
her. Watching me get turned on.
I open my mouth to try to explain myself – how, I
don’t know – and he cuts me off.
“Do not speak.”
I shut
unpadded, made of a thin white cotton, and will do nothing to hide my nipples
if it stays this cold.
I cross my arms in front of my chest and make my way out of
the vestibule. There is a light coming from a formal reception room to my
right, and all the other doors are closed. Feeling inexplicably embarrassed, I
creep into the reception room.
I am alone.
There’s a warm light, and expensive looking, stylish black
furniture that nevertheless looks very uncomfortable. I perch awkwardly on the
edge of a black sofa, smoothing my black skirt beneath me, and look around. I
guess I expect to see the sorts of things you normally see in a doctor’s
office: a reception desk, a secretary or something, magazines.
There’s none of that. Just this muted gray room, with its
soft light and a mild chill in the air. My nipples are still quite awake.
There’s a door in the far wall, besides the opening onto the main hall that I
had come through, and it’s open just a bit. Not enough to see anything, just
enough to tease.
It seems rude, somehow, that there’s no one here to greet
me. To explain all this.
I’m debating whether to go sneak around, my arms wrapped
tightly around me, when I hear it. A soft, light scraping noise. Awkward,
arrhythmic. Scrape, scrape, scrape, followed by a shuffle, what might be a
groan.
It stops for a moment. I’m looking around, certain I heard
it, but feeling kind of crazy, when it starts up again, slightly louder this
time. Scrape, scrape, scrape. Then the same pause, and the same shuffle.
I sit motionless in the cold, my arms tensed at my sides,
heedless of my nipples poking through the thin fabric of my skirt. I’m usually
able to identify sounds, but I have no idea what this is.
It’s come closer. This time when the scraping stops, a tiny
little dustpan is pushed into view in the open doorway off the reception area.
I giggle a little bit – a dustpan? I was afraid of a dustpan?
And then comes the girl.
She’s nearly naked, covered only in a thin black bikini, a
leather collar around her neck. Her pale skin shines in the soft light. Her
hands are bound behind her back with more black leather, and she carefully
holds a small dust broom in her mouth. She’s gripping the handle with her
teeth, her painted red lips stretched wide. Slowly she shuffles forward on her
knees, until she’s in front of the dustpan, and then, with aching slowness, she
sweeps a bit of dust forward, her breasts swaying heavily near the floor.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
I must gasp, or maybe I say something, because she pauses
for a moment and looks up. She looks me in the eye, and it almost looks like
she smiles with that broom handle stuck in her mouth.
Then she leans over, and pushes the dustpan forward with her
nose.
I can’t help but stare at her. I don’t know what I’m
supposed to feel. How are you supposed to react to something like that?
What I begin to feel, though, is a warmth down below. And my
nipples, hard now, beneath my thin blouse, ache to be touched. I squirm a
little in my seat, rubbing my bottom into the rough fabric, scraping my nipples
against my bra and blouse, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.
I don’t know how long I watch her, but she’s nearly out of
sight when I become aware of another presence.
A man. In the doorway that was only partially open, now
fully open, his hands clasped behind his broad back. He wears a white dress
shirt, starched collar, tucked into a trim waist. Over six feet tall, with
cold, bright blue eyes, and black, slicked back hair, with just a few streaks
of gray. He must have been an athlete with that build, that confidence.
He’s the single most intimidating man I’ve ever seen, and
I’m not sure why. I can’t read his expression, but he’s been watching me, watch
her. Watching me get turned on.
I open my mouth to try to explain myself – how, I
don’t know – and he cuts me off.
“Do not speak.”
I shut
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