by Ella Ford
She smiled, a lazy smirk that was heavy with desire and longing. “You like this sugar?” she breathed, kissing my foot, causing my toes to wriggle and dance.
I nodded.
“Show me how much you like it,” she purred, turning back to my foot, sweeping her tongue slowly along the length of my arch, pressing her nose in the space behind my toes, breathing deeply. I nodded again and shifted my hand, reaching under my dress and finding the elasticated band of my pantyhose. Without a second thought about how exposed and public this was, I slid my fingers underneath the sheer mesh and plunged into my slick pussy. I glanced around to find Natasha gazing at me, eyes fixed on the space between my legs where my fingers now worked. Her face was red and flushed, eyes wide with desire, red lips parted as she stared at my sordid performance.
I began to move, returning my gaze to Britney as she continued to smother my foot in warm attention. My focus collapsed to her, her young body moving in time with the quickening beat, hands sliding up and down my captive leg, tongue flicking out to lap at my toes.
Boom boom boom. The beat of the loud music continued, drowning out everything else. Or maybe it was my heart, pounding in my chest, informing the motion of my fingers, sliding through my pussy, squeezing my clitoris roughly. The narrow shard of my universe seemed to fall into a tight synchronization, everything moving in time with that relentless beat. My heart, my fingers, Britney’s hips, Britney’s tongue; tight clockwork machinery with one purpose, my pleasure. Boom boom boom. My throbbing pussy rose to join this pulsating throng, each pounding bass beat causing fiery waves of pleasure to ripple through my body, causing an intolerable tension in my muscles that I knew must soon be satisfied, lest it consume me utterly.
I moved my fingers quicker, matching the music as it slipped into a quicker beat. Faster and faster I worked, inviting the release that seemed so close now. Britney sensed my growing arousal and intensified her attention at my feet, still dancing, still gyrating, body moving in a blur of sensual activity. Her warmth mouth soaked my foot until the nylon shone in the light of the booth. Her hands flicked up and down my leg, stroking my inner thighs, each touch sending warm shivers throughout my body.
Faster and faster, harder and harder, my fingers moved to match Britney, quickening their pace, pressing down until every pulse of ecstasy from my clit blurred into the next, forming a constant cacophony of pleasure that drove me wild with desire, passing a point of no return that had only one destination.
I felt my body lift from the seat, spine arching to push my breasts towards the dancer. I reached down with my free hand, clawing at the warm leather, desperate to find purchase as the quaking force raged in my body. My pussy exploded, squirting hot liquid over my frantic fingers. I pressed down one final time, squashing my clit against my pelvic bone until another gush of warmth soaked my pantyhose. Then I threw my head back and cried out.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” I cried, toes curling into tight balls against Britney’s cheek. I forgot where I was, no longer caring who heard my cries of pleasure, only needing to release the energy that gripped my trembling body.
After endless seconds of this exquisite torment, the energy left me and I collapsed back, leg sliding down Britney’s chest. My soaking foot brushed against her hard nipples and she sighed, gazing down at me as I deflated into a dishevelled heap. Then she turned to Natasha, lowering my leg gently to the floor.
“Thank you Britney, that was most entertaining,” said the older woman, handing the dancer a carefully folded pile of bills. Distantly, I wondered how much such a personal performance would cost, wondered how you could put a price on such intense pleasure.
“Have a great night, y’all,” the dancer drawled, flicking me a coquettish wink as she breezed by. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” she added with a titter, then slinked out of the booth to her next sordid assignment.
Natasha turned to me and smiled, then reached into her purse and pulled out a simple, white business card. She stood slowly and then bent down, placing the card on my chest.
“I’ll see you in Vegas honey,” she purred and touched her hand to my knee. Then she turned and followed Britney out of the booth, leaving me lying there, my body a smouldering ruin.
Vegas
June 22nd, 2016
Las Vegas. Gaudy desert paradise, a ceaseless jungle of neon lights and constant noise, catering to every type of legal vice, and most illegal vices if you knew where to look. But my particular vice could not be satisfied by the endless buzz and tacky offerings of The Strip, for it was not gambling or drinking or even the vanilla ministrations of the hotel hookers that I desired.
I’d arrived in the neon oasis two days earlier and spent the time recovering from my trip, seeing the sights and immersing myself in the tacky irrelevance of my surroundings, eventually quenching my curiosity and affirming that mainstream Vegas was not for me.
Exhausted by the constant heat and irritating hum of ubiquitous humanity, I returned to my hotel room and fished around in my bag, eventually finding the simple white business card that Natasha had dismissively placed on my chest as I recovered from the mind-blowing orgasm administered by Britney, the dancer at Madame J.’s.
I hadn’t expected to follow up on her offer, no - her demand, to visit her home. Instead I’d consigned the experience in the darkened club to my holiday memory box, an exquisite encounter that I would cherish forever, but nothing more. And so it was with some surprise that I found myself turning the simple business card over in my fingers, gazing at it with furrowed brow, the weight of indecision freezing me in place.
I glanced around the hotel room, eyes landing on the small pile of solicitations that I’d collected; glossy brochures offering bland, dead-eyed looking girls with porn-stereotype names like Candi or Delicious or Stacy Sin. Brochures and leaflets that I hadn’t sought out, but I’d instead been handed by cynical hawkers, hoping to snare any fish they could in their wide flung nets.
I sighed and nodded to myself, then picked up my phone and tapped the email address from the business card into my mail application, adding a simple message:
Where and when? Becky
I sat back on the bed, not really expecting to hear anything, simultaneously hoping that I wouldn’t and hoping that I would. After only a few minutes, my phone buzzed, indicating an incoming email. I gasped and picked up the phone, juggling it in my trembling fingers. With wide eyes, I read the message, heart quickening to a quick beat as I absorbed the instructions, my mind racing with the thrill of possibility and the realization of potential.
The message, a simple communique written in much the same way as you’d expect a old-fashioned letter, contained a time, an address and a specific set of instruction, a dress-code for participation in whatever sordid games Natasha desired. The email was signed:
Mistress Tasha
I guess that put me in my place then.
---
The house was modest, surprisingly so. I’d expected a modern McMansion, a sprawling property with vast grounds and stylish trappings. I guess it was the personality that Natasha projected, one of a powerful and wealthy business woman, an unquestionable success who had the means and freedom to pursue her wild fantasies and sordid urges. But that didn’t seem to be the case.
As I stepped out of the Uber taxi onto the lowered curb and gazed at the modest property before me, I wondered briefly if I had the wrong address. The house was neat and well-tended, a classic middle-class home in comfortable suburbia, surrounded by functionally identical homes that stretched off in every direction down tree-lined streets, set back behind a patchwork of rectangular lawns, unexpectedly lush in the heat of early summer. I glanced at my phone and double-checked the email: 22481 Adobe Blvd. I was at the right place.
I took a deep breath and collected myself, then set off up the driveway to the screen door, taking nervous steps and peering in the window for signs that my approach was being watched. As I reached the front step, I caught a glimpse o
f my reflection in the long pane of glass that bordered the door.
I was dressed as instructed, though undressed may have been a better description of my attire. On my upper body, I wore a short, beige trench coat, tied around my waist to protect my modesty. I’d been forced to buy the coat, having not packed one myself - who brings a coat to Vegas? But the countless subterranean shopping malls in that consumer Mecca had more than catered to my curious need. Beneath the short coat, I wore nothing but black, sheer pantyhose and simple stiletto heels. The pantyhose had a thick seam down the back of my legs, arranged with painstaking precision to precisely follow the length of my leg - a specific instruction provided by Natasha in her email.
My hair was braided in a wide ponytail, a honey rope that bounced over my back as I walked; my makeup was simple and restrained, subtle red lips and shaded eyes.
Judging by the lingering look that the Uber driver had given me as I skipped over to his car, I’d say that I probably looked somewhere halfway between a million dollars and Vegas hooker. I just hoped that this was somewhere close to what Mistress Tasha wanted.
As I stepped up onto the wide porch, I shuddered, suddenly feeling very exposed and vulnerable. The soft fabric of the coat’s thin lining brushed against my naked breasts and my stomach, while the warm late afternoon breeze breezed between my legs like a lover’s sigh on my pussy. I felt a sudden rush of vertigo as I gingerly took each step, causing me to stagger on my precarious heels and clutch at the porch railing for balance. What was I doing? The thought sang out in my head like an accusation. I had no idea what awaited me behind this door, or what Natasha’s game was. I had no idea if she would be alone, or whether this was some elaborate plan to lure me into a sordid entrapment. And here I was, essentially naked but for a scant covering of flimsy material.
I paused on the steps, looking back at the street behind me; rows of identikit houses and manicured gardens. Simple dwellings for average Americans, secure behind their sprinklers and white picket fences. Did any of them realize what went on behind the closed doors of their neighbors? Did any of them harbor sensual secrets of their own, or entertain mysterious guests met in salacious surroundings? Did I want to be a part of their world? Or did I crave this other world, the world of Mistress Tasha or Jamie Danvers?
I turned on the steps and gazed up at the unassuming screen door yards away from me. My choice was clear, in some ways had been made years before when I was still in college. It was a choice I made when I kneeled before Professor Cole and took her toes in my mouth, placed my tongue on her pussy. It was a decision made as two desperate sorority girls had lapped at my sex, each one desperate to please me in their own sinful way. A decision cemented by my sensual seduction of Abi Hausman, teasing her pantyhose covered legs with my own silky soft feet, feeling my way up her thigh by instinct alone, knowing where I had to go, what I had to do to bring her the pleasure that I craved myself. My path didn’t contain picket fences and weekend barbeques. It was a journey of sensual exploration, sapphic desire and hot chances taken for exquisite rewards, a world of possibility from a flash of ankle or the soft swish of nylon on nylon.
I took a deep breath and covered the final few steps to the screen door, then raised my hand to knock. Suddenly, the inner door opened and a figure loomed out of the dim light within.
“I thought you were having second thoughts for a minute there,” said a familiar voice. It was Natasha, Mistress Tasha, as confident and cocky as ever, her voice low and assured, an unplaceable accent that I swore had a hint of some faraway European intonation in it.
The older woman stepped into the doorway and pushed the screen door open, causing me to stumble backwards on my heels, bumping against the porch railing behind me. I gasped and cried out.
“Careful girl,” said Natasha, gazing at me quizzically. She was dressed plainly, wearing flowing linen pants and a loose white blouse, her dark hair held back with a surprisingly jaunty headband. Barefoot and relaxed, she looked a world away from the stern business woman I’d met the week before. “Now, come inside. Don’t want the neighbours to see what I’m up to when Charles is away,” she added with an exaggerated wink.
I nodded urgently and glanced around, suddenly sure that I could feel the scrutiny of twitching drapes and shifting blinds on my back and exposed neck. With no grace at all, I tottered forward on my heels, brushing past Natasha and into the modest house, any thoughts of doubt or uncertainty banished by the older woman’s overwhelming presence.
I took another deep breath as I glanced around the reception room I found myself in, surprised by the modernity of the small house. It was sparsely decorated in a minimalist style. Whitewashed walls with dark wood flooring; occasional curiosities on simple plinths - a crimson vase here, an abstract bust there; a pair of uncomfortable sofas and a low coffee table, seemingly hewn from a single block of hardwood. The room was icy and cold, matching Natasha’s personality perfectly.
“Welcome to my humble home,” said Natasha behind me.
“It’s lovely,” I said, sounding as sincere as I could.
She glanced at me and smirked, the corner of her mouth rising and her eyes narrowing. “Now, now, let’s not start our new friendship with a lie Rebecca,” she said, sounding like the perfect imitation of an elementary school teacher. I felt a shudder of fear and trepidation, awed by her in ways that I found difficult to articulate, shocked by how quickly she’d seen through my insincerity. The modest house seemed strangely inappropriate for her towering personality. Mistress Tasha seemed more suited to a country manor or vast estate. It was a strange juxtaposition. “Now, can I take your coat?” she purred with a sultry pout.
I gasped in surprise at the seemingly innocent politeness. “I’m…” I began, feeling a warm flush spreading over my cheeks.
Mistress Tasha nodded. “Yes, yes. Naked. I know, as I instructed. Now, are you going to give me your coat or are you going to be a naughty girl?”
I felt a wave of inexplicable shame wash over me, and slowly untied the thin belt, allowing the coat to slip over my shoulders and down my arms. Then I held out the beige garment and hunched my shoulders, attempting to cover my naked breasts. “I-I’m sorry, Mistress Tasha,” I whispered, staring at the floor.
The older woman took the coat, gazing at my body as I stood before her. “Thank you dear,” she said, folding the coat over her arm and taking a step back. “I like a girl who wears pantyhose, you know?” she asked, her gaze roaming down my body and over my dark legs.
I nodded. “Yes, Mistress Tasha.”
“Of course you do,” she said, stepping around me and draping my coat over the angular arm of one of the sofas. Then she stepped back to where I stood, her heels clicking on the hard floor. She stopped directly behind me so that I could feel the warmth of her on my naked back, then slowly traced her fingers up and down my bare arms, provoking outbreaks of gooseflesh over my hot skin. “I saw you with Britney,” she breathed, moving her head to mine, whispering directly into my ear. “I watched her suck your toes, watched you watching her. I saw the look in your eyes. It wasn’t the first time a girl has sucked your toes is it?”
“No, Mistress Tasha,” I sighed. My heart was racing, fueled by trepidation and desire, this strange seduction energizing me more than I ever could have dreamed possible. I felt strangely out of control and vulnerable, and the feeling thrilled me.
“Do you like having your toes sucked Rebecca?” she purred.
“Yes.”
“Do you like sucking toes, Rebecca?” she whispered.
“Yes. Yes.”
She lifted her hand and slapped my bare bottom, causing the room to echo with a sudden crack. I gasped and flinched forward, but she held me in place, resting her hand on my tingling behind. “Yes. Mistress. Tasha,” she said firmly.
“Yes, Mistress Tasha,” I repeated, gazing down at the floor. What had I gotten myself into?
“Tell me what you like,” she breathed into my ear, “about sucking toes.”
“I like how they look. I like to see painted nails beneath black nylon. I like to follow the seam with my tongue, tracing the line of her toes, making her squirm. I like the taste of her… the smell. I like to bury my face in her feet, feeling her on my skin, feeling her toes press against my cheeks. I like to breath her in, to fill my nose and throat with her. I…”
“That’s enough,” she breathed, tapping my bottom with her hand. “You’re making me wet, you dirty, dirty girl.” She paused and curled her arm around my body, gripping me lightly around my neck and pulling me towards her. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to suck my toes, Rebecca,” she said and my heart skipped a beat. A wave of liquid warmth washed out of my pussy and into my limbs, sending hot tingles through my body. “You’re going to suck my toes and, if you do a good job of it, then I’m going to fuck you to within an inch of your young life,” she whispered, finishing her sentence with a soft blow of warm air into my ear.
I sighed and shuddered. “Yes, Mistress Tasha, whatever you want.”
Then I felt her hands leave my arms, trailing away with a teasing scratch of her long nails. Seconds later, she reached up and slipped a length of soft satin fabric over my eyes, pulling it around my head and tying it above my ponytail.
“But first,” she said, guiding my body backwards, steadying me as I stumbled slightly, off-balance in the unfamiliar room without the ability to see where I was placing my stiletto heels. “But first, we’re going to get you warmed up.” She tightened her grip on my shoulders and stopped my motion, then pressed down, forcing me to bend my knees
