Red Light Special


I know you’ll think I say this to all my slaves, but I really do think about you. Not just after our delicious sessions at Rapture. Not just outside the Red Room where I taunt and tease and torture you down to your very marrow. Not even just while I’m sliding on the Cuban heeled stockings and buttery red leather stilettoes you simply live to suckle. I think about you in my vanilla life as well.

Oh don’t be shocked. How would I know the minute and private ways to make your world collapse if I did not live in it myself? I must masquerade in the world, just as you do, with my secret self shrouded in a veil of respectability. Of course, though, it’s completely expected that I’d be wearing my own panties. Who would suspect that you are swathed in my dainties as well? Ohhhh, poor darling – are you squirming in your office chair now? Is the string of the thong pulling tautly against the back of your balls as you feign interest in what your colleague is saying? Will you be having to make a covert dash to the men’s room to relieve the strain of your now-bulging cock against the elastic of my panties? Did your secretary see the tell-tale outline of your torment pressed against the somber fabric of your slacks? What a terrible, terrible shame for you that I have not allowed you release until you receive my approval. Betturkey I feel for you. I truly do.

And as I said, I am not completely free, myself. I think of you as I go about my day. A jaunt to the hardware store brings new inspiration, and I swear I’ve aroused the interest of a young, male employee as he saw me lovingly fingering the hooks and bolts and chains in aisle six, and then have a potentially indecent moment stroking a hose in the garden section. What a luscious, blazing welt that would raise against your defenseless white cheeks! No doubt I’d have to secure you to the posts of the canopied bondage bed so you could not escape my loving lash (you know I do this because I care, don’t you), but there are a few steel items in aisle seven I think may find a home in Rapture’s silver room for just that purpose – and I mustn’t forget to stock up on duct tape. Oh – the young employee is openly gaping now, and a flash of my garter did not help his situation at all. Perhaps I’ll be seeing him at the dungeon soon. Perhaps I will drop a card.

Next on today’s to-do list (and curse slaves who come down with the flu when they are supposed to be doing my chores!) – the office supply store. I’m in need of new file folders as my scribbled lists of scenes and whims and fantasies grown ever thicker Betturkey Giriş (and you have noted my amusement when things grow thicker, have you not, slut?), but I cannot deter myself from lingering in front of bins of bulldog clips and packets of rubber bands. Why look – the folders I have selected are nearly the same hues as your violently blued cock, when I twist the circulation away with thick bands (and you are just SO adorable when you plead – have I ever told you that?), and your blood-bright nipples before I flick them free of their little springed prisons. Ours is a colorful relationship, is it not?

A quick jaunt to the pet store. Note to self – the new collar and lead will be in next week, and luckily the customized dog bowl will finished then as well. Oh goodness me – I’ve let your birthday surprise slip. Well it’s no secret that I’ve trained you to be an exceptionally good puppy – fetching all manner of toys with your mouth when I toss them across the room, cleaning up puddles of piss from the floor (oh excuse me – was that MY accident that splashed into your water dish? You seemed to have no problems lapping up every last drop, and in fact begged for more!), and again the begging – oh, the lovely begging! For that, you may now eat from your very own bowl, rather than scrounging your food from the wastebasket or the toilet. Oh, no need to thank me…well. on second thought, there really always is.

A last stop at the supermarket before heading back to Rapture. I’m grateful for the cooling mist of the ice-cream freezers, as my face and other regions heated as I dawdled in the produce aisle imagining the creeping sear of a carefully whittled rod of ginger root inserted gently in your crevice. I’m fairly certain there would be tears, but of joy? Pain? Who could really tell, with your mouth crammed full of a distinctly dildo-esque dill pickle you’re fellating like a gosh-darned champ? And really, at that point, who cares? I certainly know I’m going to make at all better so very soon and soothe the ginger burn with a delicious chocolate pudding pop that seems to be molded for that very purpose. And as it happens, the color is quite fortunate, since you’ll be licking the whole thing down to the stick after it is removed from your nether regions. I’d just hate for you to be even the tiniest bit disgusted. That would simply be tragic.

Errands accomplished, and fortunate me – a slave-in-reserve has phoned to inquire if I wish his services, and he is parked just outside and ready to ferry me and the afternoon’s bounty back up to the dungeon. Phone me when you are released from work and perhaps…just perhaps there will be a red-light special hand-selected just for you. Thank you for shopping at Rapture-mart, my sweet…

© 2005 Mistress Cherry Esplanade

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