you allow me to contact you?
Wickedgirl: Of course. But I’m certain you’ll be a good slave and do what you need to do to please your mistress so that she will never again contemplate being without you.
Something inside Dean glowed. Was that normal? It couldn’t be. Not from such a short online communication. It must be the tiredness and the buzz from last night making him take this woman’s generosity in talking to him too personally.
Thank you very much. I hope you find someone who deserves you and makes you happy. Although if you don’t mind me saying, you seem too good for this site.
Wickedgirl: Read my name, I’m wicked, not good :) Farewell, slavetothee. May your mistress appreciate and cherish you always.
Dean started to write a reply but she’d gone offline. A hollow and empty feeling replaced the earlier glow. He started to write a message to her for her to read when she next logged in, but after five minutes of typing he deleted everything he’d written. He shook his head, bit down on his lip, and started to compose a new message to Mistress Crimson.
He read it through carefully, checking for any spelling errors or typos, and then sent it. A moment later he sent another one giving her his mobile number, then he went to prepare spaghetti bolognese for one.
Past midnight his mobile rung, waking him from a beautiful dream. It was an unknown number and for a hazy moment he thought it was his dream woman, his wicked girl, stepping into his real life, then recognition of Mistress Crimson’s voice raced through his brain.
He ignored the flow of disappointment and composed himself. ‘Thank you for calling me, Mistress Crimson, I am here to do whatever you want whenever you want me to do it.’
Chapter Seven - Meat
Can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t replace you.
I sent the text without thinking about it.
Or rather, I spent all night thinking about it. I’d been chatting online, trying different sites, playing along with the different scenarios that different men created; and it was all the same.
Simultaneously in the virtual world:
I was a bride doing a sexy striptease for the best man and ushers while my husband fucked my bridesmaids.
I was a college student masturbating in bed while my tutor watched through a crack in the door.
I was a whore giving blowjobs in the gents’ loos at a cheap club.
I was a MILF bouncing up and down on the cock of my neighbour’s son.
In the real world:
I was bored.
I was lonely.
I was self-doubting.
I was in love, hopelessly.
I tried playing with myself, teasing my clit with my favourite vibe, but my mind immediately filled up with the time my master left me tied up for most of the night with a gag in my mouth and a vibe in my arse and pussy. And then no sex toy could give me any pleasure, only memory and longing.
So what was left to me was the computer.
But the online flirtations were too easy, too disposable; even when I thought that was what I wanted.
A man who looked a little bit like Bruce Willis in his photo – that is, if Bruce Willis had ever taken a picture of himself with a cameraphone at full stretch sitting on a paisley patterned sofa – had an ounce of potential. A quarter of an ounce of potential.
He made me laugh with some stupid joke, and when we started talking sex he was an obvious dom, with a bit more wit and intelligence than the rest. But then he started talking about how he wanted me to buy a milk pump and start pumping my breasts until I started lactating. Which maybe I could have got into if it was my master with his silky, commanding voice and his eyes looking at me in that way which seemed to give me no choice but to obey. No maybe. Whatever my lover said, I did. Cold on the screen, though, the words coming from a stranger left me passionless.
Another man asked for my address so he could send me a pot of his spunk to drink. He assured me that he’d watched one of his online slaves drink his come on webcam.
These
Wickedgirl: Of course. But I’m certain you’ll be a good slave and do what you need to do to please your mistress so that she will never again contemplate being without you.
Something inside Dean glowed. Was that normal? It couldn’t be. Not from such a short online communication. It must be the tiredness and the buzz from last night making him take this woman’s generosity in talking to him too personally.
Thank you very much. I hope you find someone who deserves you and makes you happy. Although if you don’t mind me saying, you seem too good for this site.
Wickedgirl: Read my name, I’m wicked, not good :) Farewell, slavetothee. May your mistress appreciate and cherish you always.
Dean started to write a reply but she’d gone offline. A hollow and empty feeling replaced the earlier glow. He started to write a message to her for her to read when she next logged in, but after five minutes of typing he deleted everything he’d written. He shook his head, bit down on his lip, and started to compose a new message to Mistress Crimson.
He read it through carefully, checking for any spelling errors or typos, and then sent it. A moment later he sent another one giving her his mobile number, then he went to prepare spaghetti bolognese for one.
Past midnight his mobile rung, waking him from a beautiful dream. It was an unknown number and for a hazy moment he thought it was his dream woman, his wicked girl, stepping into his real life, then recognition of Mistress Crimson’s voice raced through his brain.
He ignored the flow of disappointment and composed himself. ‘Thank you for calling me, Mistress Crimson, I am here to do whatever you want whenever you want me to do it.’
Chapter Seven - Meat
Can’t stop thinking about you. Can’t replace you.
I sent the text without thinking about it.
Or rather, I spent all night thinking about it. I’d been chatting online, trying different sites, playing along with the different scenarios that different men created; and it was all the same.
Simultaneously in the virtual world:
I was a bride doing a sexy striptease for the best man and ushers while my husband fucked my bridesmaids.
I was a college student masturbating in bed while my tutor watched through a crack in the door.
I was a whore giving blowjobs in the gents’ loos at a cheap club.
I was a MILF bouncing up and down on the cock of my neighbour’s son.
In the real world:
I was bored.
I was lonely.
I was self-doubting.
I was in love, hopelessly.
I tried playing with myself, teasing my clit with my favourite vibe, but my mind immediately filled up with the time my master left me tied up for most of the night with a gag in my mouth and a vibe in my arse and pussy. And then no sex toy could give me any pleasure, only memory and longing.
So what was left to me was the computer.
But the online flirtations were too easy, too disposable; even when I thought that was what I wanted.
A man who looked a little bit like Bruce Willis in his photo – that is, if Bruce Willis had ever taken a picture of himself with a cameraphone at full stretch sitting on a paisley patterned sofa – had an ounce of potential. A quarter of an ounce of potential.
He made me laugh with some stupid joke, and when we started talking sex he was an obvious dom, with a bit more wit and intelligence than the rest. But then he started talking about how he wanted me to buy a milk pump and start pumping my breasts until I started lactating. Which maybe I could have got into if it was my master with his silky, commanding voice and his eyes looking at me in that way which seemed to give me no choice but to obey. No maybe. Whatever my lover said, I did. Cold on the screen, though, the words coming from a stranger left me passionless.
Another man asked for my address so he could send me a pot of his spunk to drink. He assured me that he’d watched one of his online slaves drink his come on webcam.
These
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