I didn't used to be this.. distractable..

I have an assignment I'm working on currently.. rest assured that I am putting a great deal of effort into it not only for the Master, but also for you, dear faithful readers. Hopefully it'll be complete by the end of the weekend.

In the meantime.. back to the standing orders.

Many, many, many years ago, when I first became involved with the D/s world, there was the most amazing club in the major city near where I lived. It's where I first met the Dom that would be responsible for the majority of my training, and where most of my group/public activities took place (not counting the stripping I did in college).

As far as I know, throughout the course of our relationship/my training, my Dom never sought attention elsewhere- but he thoroughly enjoyed loaning me out. It started with the discipline workshops that were held on one of the other floors of the club; he would sit by the edge of the stage, watching me at the hands of another master, pale skin easily displaying each stroke of the paddle, or whip, or flog, or crop. I still clearly remember how at the end of the first show, he scooped me up off the bench as soon as I was untied (there would have been no way I could have walked under my own power), strode quickly to the bathroom, and fucked me on the sink, his fingers digging into the welts that were already forming on my thighs and back.

He was slightly more restrained at subsequent shows. Eventually he expected me to join the list of subs available for the Basement.

The Basement was actually the ground floor of the club; it catered to a fairly exclusive clientele, with strict regulations in place as to health history. Once inside the doors, barring immediate threat or risk of damage, anything went. If there was any part of me that was prejudice against a particular act or combination of partners, the repeated exposure (either through experiencing it myself, or watching others) destroyed such thoughts.

I squirm a bit as I write this, thinking about the things I was ordered to do in those days.. but certainly not out of shame, or guilt, or regret. Rather, I'm involuntarily shifting my hips in a lazy, back-and-forth motion that's putting a nice bit of pressure just where I need it, as the memories stir the nagging, dull ache into the beginning of true arousal.

I was, dare I say, quite popular in the Basement. I was certainly not the most obedient sub, or the most willing to engage in the more taboo kinks (blood, yes. water sports/scat, no. spitting could go either way, depending on the situation and the involved parties), nor was I the most attractive. But I was.. enthusiastic, and an eager student. It probably helped that I was young and fairly new to the scene as well.. nothing is so attractive as a little lamb begging to be corrupted.

I maintained then, and do now, that multiple-partner encounters (anything more than two) only work well if the same-sex partners are either truly invested in the curiosity thing (no LUGs here), or are bisexual. My taste in women is narrow, I admit, and given a choice I prefer to take on two or more gentlemen, but for short-term encounters I will happily bat for either team.

I was going somewhere with this, I seem to recall. It's just getting a bit hard to concentrate. I can feel the wetness seeping through my panties, threatening to dampen my jeans as well. One of my coworkers walks past my office windows and I raise a slightly shaky hand in acknowledgment. I shift again in my chair, tempted to take just a moment to slide a finger through my folds, just to see how wet I am..

My phone beeps; a text message from my coworker, the one I've mentioned previously. He has utterly impeccable timing. I rest my head against the computer monitor, take a few deep breaths, and jot off an answer.

Where was I.. oh, right.

I am actually going somewhere with this, outside of the trip down memory lane. It actually ties into two things that the Master and I discussed yesterday.. first, what's the nastiest thing I've ever been involved in.

I had to giggle a bit at that. Over twenty years separates me from my first awkward fumblings to now, and great swatches of that time are a blur of hands and mouths and cocks and pussies (cunts, my brain corrects). It would take some thinking to come up with an answer. The one I gave him was as accurate as any other would have been.

....

You know, I had started to type out what the second thing was, with every intention of keeping focused and finishing this entry in one fell swoop. But the further I got, the more I was reminded why it's not a good thing to be the aurally-driven creature that I am. As I wrote, I could hear his voice in my head, as clear as the reality of it yesterday, and the images it created in my mind proved overwhelming.

Fuck it, I said to myself.  And moved quickly from my office to lock myself in the bathroom, desperate to get my fingers inside me. The jeans went first; the underwear took a little more time as they were nearly glued in place by my juices. I leaned into the wall and drove two fingers into my tight hole, teeth sinking into my forearm as his voice continued to play in my head.

He wants me to chat with his friends.. perhaps he'll pass the phone around one day, making me listen to them pleasuring themselves, telling me what a dirty little whore I am, what they'd do to me.

But here in the cold, concrete bathroom, my fingers working frantically on my clit, it wasn't on the phone. I was there, in the locker room, surrounded by sweaty, horny men whose only interest was me getting them off. Hard, hot cocks filling me as each takes their turn, claiming my mouth, my ass, my cunt.

I stuff my shirttail into my mouth so I can use that hand on my tits instead, pushing my bra out of the way and pinching my already tight nipples, palm cupping the heavy flesh. Trying to be quiet, but the whimpers escape my throat and echo in the small space. I glance up into the mirror and barely even recognize myself, let alone the look of wild need in my eyes.

Picturing myself on my knees in front of them as they jerk off, cum landing on my face, my tits, my hair. Fingers grasping, pulling, probing everywhere; someone fucking my face, my hair wrapped around his fist, while another pounds into me from behind. On my back as more take their place..

My head snaps forward into the wall as I come, but I don't feel it; only the driving waves of pleasure as the image of the Master watching me being fucked by his friends pushes me over the edge.

I lick my fingers clean before washing my hands; I know it would please the Master for me to do so, and I do love the taste of my pussy. Rearrange my clothes, smooth out my hair, and slowly make my way back to the office to pick up where I'd left off on this entry. Sadly I've completely lost my train of thought, so I decide I'll just post this instead and the point of it will- as it comes to me- follow later.

There's a good distance between the Master and I (damn pond), and as such I harbor no illusions that such a thing could actually happen.. but as my breathing eases its way back to normal, I can't help wishing, in that tiny secret part of me, that it could.

Keep an eye out for my next assignment.. I think you'll enjoy it.  :)