by Ella Ford
“How many do I own?”
I nodded.
“At the moment, there’s Kristy here and Kim, and Sue. You’ll be my fourth.”
I shook my head, but it was more from disbelief than resistance. I knew that she was right, and the realization filled me with an excitement I couldn’t believe.
“Why… why pantyhose?”
She took a step back and studied me, her eyes running down my body with a hungry fervor and stopping at my stockinged feet. “Perhaps it’s better if I show you, rather than tell you,” she said and turned from me. “Kristy, you did an excellent job with Sarah’s foot massage. Perhaps it’s time that she returned the favor. Please, sit down over there,” she said, gesturing over to the long sofa.
Kristy nodded and scurried over to the couch, lowering herself into a seating position, sitting perfectly straight, then she turned to me with an expectant look.
“I can’t…” I said, but I was already walking across the room.
“Stand there, please,” said Lucy, gesturing before Kristy and taking her position in the armchair once more, sitting with the poise of a ballet teacher awaiting a recital from her two star pupils.
I moved into position without hesitation and turned, instinctively aware that I was dancing to another’s tune now.
“Take off your clothes, Sarah,” she said matter-of-factly, with no more weight than an invitation to take a seat might have carried.
I tried to resist, truly I did, I even opened my mouth to speak. But my fingers were already on the buttons of my blouse. I knew then, perhaps for the first time, that any resistance was futile. In a few seconds I was naked but for my pantyhose and panties. I should have felt bashful, ashamed, should have made some attempt to cover myself up. Distantly, I wondered what would have happened if someone else was working late and came in at that moment. How would they react if they found Kristy and myself so naked and exposed? But I knew that it to be a false fear. Lucy Cummings wanted it this way, she had engineered it so. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that Lucy, Mistress, would have ensured that we wouldn’t be disturbed.
For the first time in my life, I felt a feeling a longed for but had seldom found: security.
“In your own time, Sarah, I’d like you to kneel before Kristy and worship her poor little feet. Use your hands and your mouth. And then, when you’re satisfied that her feet are feeling just fine, I’d like you to work your way up her legs and eat her pussy.”
Behind me, Kristy squealed with a delight that was palpable. I felt dizzy. I opened my mouth once more to protest, but said nothing. What was the point? My instincts were fighting a losing battle with my desires. I wondered instead, with a distant fascination, what Kristy’s cunt as going to taste like.
I kneeled down.
Kristy shuffled before me, relaxing back into the comfortable embrace of the couch and pushing her bottom to the edge of the cushion. As she sunk into the sofa, her shoulders were pushed forwards, in turn squeezing her breasts together slightly, a mesmerizing effect that made me sigh. Her nipples were hard like steel, I noticed with a remote feeling of satisfaction, then I glanced down at my body and found that mine were too. Kristy lifted a finger to her lips and peered down at me, then slowly, deliberately, parted her long, pantyhose covered legs, drawing my eyes down to what Mistress had determined was my final destination. I gazed at it, transfixed. Her pantyhose were sheer to the waist, with not even a seam running between her legs. I was afforded a view of her pussy that was dimmed by the dark nylon mesh that covered it, but otherwise utterly exposed to me. Small details assailed my senses - the pink wrinkles of her labia, the complete absence of any hair, the glistening dampness of her hose. I was two feet from another girl’s most intimate area and I couldn’t think of a single place I’d rather be in the world. Well, not quite…
But I had work to do. I had to earn my supper. It’s funny how quickly I began to think in those terms. How I began to see my performance and my obedience as a debt to be repaid.
I forced my attention away from Kristy’s cunt and glanced down to my side. Kristy’s left foot was resting limply on the carpet beside me, toes curling back in lazy arcs, silently demanding attention. I reached down and gripped her ankle, relishing the way my fingers closed around her slender limb, marvelling at how much like the coils of rope my grip looked on her. I lifted her leg and she shuffled to accommodate me, allowing me to raise her foot before my face, as she had with mine.
I was operating on instinct now. Time had slowed to a crawl, the universe had collapsed until the outside world seemed utterly irrelevant. Any rational response would have been to freak out at the fact that I was naked and kneeling in my place of work; any sensible reaction would have been to grab my clothes and run. But I was beyond rationality and sense now, charting unknown territory with neither map nor compass, using desire as a guide.
I studied the delicate expanse of her sole, tracing a lazy finger across her flesh. Kristy sighed and squirmed at my touch, tickled by my tender caress. I shifted my focus. “Sorry,” I mouthed, then grinned at her and turned back to her foot.
It’s funny, I never saw the appeal of feet before that night. Maybe because I wasn’t into women, and because guy feet are eww! But staring at Kristy’s raised foot, I swear, I never saw anything quite so attractive or arousing. In that endless period, I found myself memorizing every tiny detail: the perfect descending line of her toes, framed by the neat, dark line of her pantyhose seam; the perfect pedicure on each pristine nail - was that Kristy’s doing, or Lucy’s requirement? The soft scent of her, a scent that I knew should have revolted me, but somehow didn’t. A subtle perfume of sweat and shoe leather, utterly compelling, endlessly intoxicating.
My final transition from independent working woman to willing lesbian pantyhose slave happened somewhere in the glorious moment where I first tasted Kristy. It happened without thinking, without resistance, almost asymptotic. Simply stated, the space between my lips and her soft, fragrant flesh dwindled away to nothing, until finally I touched her, pressing my lips on her sole, waves of sensation overloading my senses. I paused there, closing my eyes, unable to process the cavalcade of signals that assailed my mind. The soft warmth of her, the salty taste of her sweat, her aroma, the feel of her under my fingertips. Time paused, a perfect moment, I felt myself float from my body to the ceiling above, peering down at myself and Kristy, locked in this slice of an instant where bodies joined. Our pale forms became pristine sculptures of womanhood, naked flesh and black nylon...
And then I was back in the moment and a fever gripped me. I kissed her foot, planting hot, wet pecks across her arch. My tongue flicked out, sampling her here and there like a gourmet dish. I raised up on my knees, angling myself to achieve total coverage, kissing the top of her foot, bringing her toes to my mouth, touching them with tender brushes of my lips, then wrapping my mouth around them and devouring them with an unmatched hunger.
Ahead of me, along the slender, endless length of her leg, Kristy sighed, panting heavily. Her hands dropped down to the sofa and gripped the cushions, her body tensed. Behind me, a million miles away, Lucy Cummings purred and I heard the delicate sound of her nylons brushing together. Her gaze burned into the back of my head and her approval felt like fuel to my desires.
Reaching down, I took Kristy’s other ankle and lifted her legs together, holding her feet before me. Then I dived forward and buried my face there, pushing my nose against her soles, desperate to feel her against my skin, savoring every touch of slippery friction. I breathed inwards, an unrestrained intake of breath that filled my lungs with her, with Kristy, with the unbearable scent of another woman. Yet it never felt strange, it never felt wrong, it never felt as though I was doing anything other than exactly what I should be doing.
“It’s time,” said a voice behind me, and I knew exactly what she meant. The starter was done, it was time for the main course.
I pulled back and lowered Kristy’s left leg, keeping her right aloft
and resting it against my shoulder. I glanced down at Kristy, now sprawled out on the sofa, playfully massaging her breasts with her hands. An electric spark passed between us, a mutual longing. Her eyes widened and she pleaded with me to continue. I hesitated, gently stroking her long leg with my fingers. Nervous trepidation gripped me.
“I don’t know what to do,” my eyes said.
“It’s okay honey, you’ll know when you get there. It’s just like yours,” Kristy’s sympathetic glance told me. And I knew that she was right.
One final time, I stroked my fingertips down Kristy’s leg, dipping my touch to within an inch of her pussy, lightly scratching her pantyhose with my nails. I swear, I could feel the warmth of that glorious place on my skin, could feel the damp longing. The sensation spurred me on. I began to kiss her again, beginning at her ankle, kissing her heel, working my way down the firm muscle of her calf, covering every inch of her with my lips. The nervous fever from before faded inside me and I became aware of a new feeling, a smouldering desire at the very core of my body, lodged in my pussy like a molten lake. Every kiss brought a boiling escalation, every inch I drew closer to what I desired the most inflated that heat to unimaginable levels. I felt a slippery wetness between my legs, the sensation of slick flesh and damp material as I soaked my panties with my desire.
Faster I worked, desperate to reach the end point of this sordid journey. For a flashing instant, I settled on the soft flesh behind her knee, kissing there until she squealed with appreciation, captivated by how velvety smooth it was. And then I was moving again, working my way to the inside of her leg, up her thigh, trailing silvery wetness wherever I went, the gift of my tongue, glistening on nylon.
Then, in a whirlwind of perfume and sweat, I was there, my mouth inches from her covered pussy. The heat of it was intense, the smell intoxicating. The broiling fire inside me made me pant with anticipation. My pussy sang out, demanded that I act. There was no hesitation now, no nervousness, no reluctance. Had there ever been, really? I pushed my head forward, pressing my mouth on her hose, crushing her pussy beneath my tongue. My tastebuds roared as the taste of her sex overwhelmed me. Salty and vital and musky, a taste whose power far exceeded the sum of its parts.
But there was something wrong, something preventing me from achieving what I wanted. Kristy felt it too, moaning and sighing with palpable frustration. Her pantyhose, Mistress’ sordid obsession. That delicate, thin layer of material was all that prevented me from achieving the union that I so longed for. I pressed harder, forcing my tongue against the nylon covering, achieving a level of sensation that I knew was a woefully lesser version of what was possible.
“Mistress, please…” said Kristy from above me, writhing in unfulfilled agony.
“I need to hear Sarah say it,” said Lucy Cummings from miles away, a wry amusement in her sultry voice.
I realized something then. Amidst the whirling maelstrom of endless desire, a curious revelation. That Mistress loved pantyhose was not in doubt. The way she greedily eyed our long legs, the deep longing in her eyes, all of this was indisputable. But our pantyhose served another purpose. They acted as a barrier to our enjoyment, a final manacle holding us in place. Pleasure, for a pantyhose sex slave, was a gift from her mistress. If pantyhose are a permanent requirement, then only Mistress’ instruction can remove the barrier and grant us pleasure. I knew what I had to do.
“Mistress,” I began, using her name in a way that signalled my final, blissful capitulation, “how may I get to Kristy’s pussy, Mistress?”
The room fell silent, the only sound was the rhythmic jackhammer of my heart in my chest.
“You may rip her pantyhose,” Mistress finally responded.
I didn’t hesitate, not for second. Before I could breathe, my fingers were gripping her hose, nails tearing at them like a rabid wolverine. At the back of my mind, my instincts raged at the wanton destruction of such exquisite and expensive pantyhose, but those instincts were fighting against a deeper hunger, one that wouldn’t let such tame considerations stand in their way.
A great rip appeared, a rough circle of frayed edges, centred on her sex, spotlighting it with perfect clarity. For the first time, I glimpsed her flesh uncovered, perfect and unblemished, glistening wet with her lust.
And then I was on it. I leaned forward and coiled my arms around her thighs, pulling her towards me with a strength I couldn’t explain. She sighed as she slid, but didn’t fight me. I lowered my head and swept my tongue upwards, barely brushing her flesh. She screamed out, begging for more. I felt frantic hands on my head, pushing me down. I went willingly. Deeper this time, I plunged my tongue into her, following the line of her labia, soaking her with my spit. She tasted amazing, intoxicating, the perfect distillation of womanhood. With hungry strokes, I lapped at her, sucking her wetness into me, gripping her lips in mine. My actions were fueled by the growing flame in my own sex, dizzying waves of pleasure that rippled out from between my legs to give strength to my actions. My arms tensed, I gripped her legs, locking my face on her pussy. She screamed and writhed, forcing her hips upwards, mashing her wet flesh against my skin. It was wet and glorious, a damp prison from which I had no intention of escaping.
I settled into a rhythm, becoming methodical, finding my way to her throbbing clit, guided by my natural instincts of what a woman needed the most. We became a symmetry of mutual need, her desires reflected my own, and all that remained was to match action to reaction. For the first time I wondered what it would feel like to have Kristy’s mouth between my legs.
Urged on by that unfamiliar consideration, I doubled down on her clit, pressing it, pushing it, forcing it to dance to the beat of my tongue. Each swipe, each lick, each suck caused Kristy’s voice to rise. Higher and higher, the blessed ascent of mounting pleasure. I sensed her rhythm, matched it, moved my tongue into a resonance with her, pushing her upwards with every passing second.
Finally, an ecstasy of long minutes later, her panting reached intolerable levels and I sensed her approaching orgasm.
“Mistress,” she sighed breathlessly, “may I… may I come?” she pleaded.
From somewhere behind, a single word. “Yes.”
Kristy exploded on me like a burst dam, gripping my head and pushing me down into the wetness that lay between her legs. Her entire body went tense, legs gripping me, stomach clenched. She gasped, panting quickly in short, sharp breaths. Then she stopped, frozen like an erotic statue, locking me in place with her thighs. After an endless epoch, she went limp, fading back into the couch, legs flopping over my back. Her soft nylon feet stroked against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. She exhaled slowly, a long breath of utter fulfillment.
I found her hand and we linked fingers, my chin resting on her smouldering pussy. I wondered, with half an interest, how on earth I’d come to this place, how my life had changed so quickly. The moment seemed perfect, pristine, the utter encapsulation of desires met.
“What a pleasant show,” said Mistress behind me. “And a delightful warm up,” she added as an afterthought.
Distantly, I wondered what on earth could possibly happen next.
4: The Taste of Lucy Cummings and my Rebirth as a Pantyhose Sex Slave
Kneeling felt right. I thought it then, I think it now, I guess I always knew it to be the case. But when Lucy Cummings told us to kneel before her, I was filled with a sensation not unlike slotting the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle home. My body simply wanted to put itself in this position. It felt deferential, proper, the correct order.
Kristy and I kneeled together before Mistress’s feet. Our heads were bowed, both focusing on the stiletto heel that dangled from the older woman’s crossed leg as she lazily bounced it up and down. Our knees were together, hands crossed behind our backs in such a way as to push out our breasts and emphasize the firmness of our nipples. We were close, touching even. I could feel the prickle of Kristy’s gooseflesh and the soft warmth of her thigh, still covered in her tattered pantyhose.
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I touched my tongue to my lips. My smeared lipstick still tasted of Kristy’s pussy and the sense of it sent shivers up and down my spine.
Mistress studied us. Sitting in silence, her eyes roamed over our naked bodies, appraising us with a look that was unfathomable to me, but which I allowed without question. What sordid escapade was she plotting next? I knew what I hoped, what I feared, but I dare not ask for it.
Shuffling forward, Mistresses flicked her foot up and allowed her dangling shoe to fall to the floor. As she moved, her tight skirt shuffled up her thighs, revealing the lace top of her thigh high stockings. It was a small detail that would have passed me by a few hours ago, but now I found myself drinking in every detail. That she wore stockings and not pantyhose intrigued me. One rule for her pantyhose sex slaves, and another for her, it seemed.
As I was pondering this observation, she lifted her leg and touched her foot to my face, gently stroking the flesh of my cheek with the her toes. Instantly, the fire that still burned within my body rose anew as I processed this new sensation, the velvet friction of her tan nylons on my cheek, the smell of another woman’s foot, the feeling of willing helplessness.
Slowly, she traced her way around my face, touching her toes to my mouth, pulling my lower lip down. I longed to purse my lips and kiss her, to flick my tongue over those perfect digits. I knew though, by some unfamiliar instinct, that this inspection was for her enjoyment, not my own If Mistress wanted me to worship her feet, she only had to ask. But it seems that this was not what Mistress had in mind right now.
All of a sudden, she lowered her foot to my chin and lifted my head up until I was gazing right at her.
“I know what you’re thinking, Sarah,” she said with a cool certainty.
“Mistress?”
“Girls like you are so predictable,” she continued, returning her foot to my cheek. I leaned into her soft sole, relishing the heat of her against me. “You’ve tasted pussy for the first time and you liked it. Am I right?”
