Dallas Mayo - For women only

A faint whimper sounded and was choked off; resigned to her shame, the youngster lifted the skirt quickly. I gasped. So did Julia. No panties? No. Nothing at all. Nothing but that sexy cunt-bulge in its downy copper-red nest, plump and provocatively rounded and neatly bisected by a single vertical dark stroke, barely visible but utterly bewitching. Frilly white garters, rucked-up white frock – and that mind-blowing thing in between. In all my life, I had never seen anything so lewd…

"There now. Obedient, isn't she? So submissive. Like a slave, a humble slave-girl who can't help herself and is only happy under my domination. She gets hot when I'm cruel to her. Sexy-hot, you know? That's why I'm so bitchy all the time. Not that it doesn't have its advantages, of course."

Was that supposed to be love? I blushed at my own irrational erotic thoughts. What of my feelings for my lover; wasn't that supposed to be love? Weird sensations were coursing through me, tying knots in my belly. Maybe love and lust were identical. Among lesbians, anyway. My mind was becoming a maze of desires and inhibitions, a turmoil, a battlefield, a breeding-ground for guilt. It was wrong to get so wrought-up over a girl, a comparative stranger, a young body, a young cunt. What was I, some kind of lesbian nymphomaniac or something?

"Put a little life into it. Oh shit, what kind of performance is that? You trying to insult our guests? Look sexy now, you're on the runway. If you've got it, flaunt it, right? Come on. No, that just won't do. I guess you'll need help." Scowling in exasperation – spurious, more than likely – the woman stood up. Three measured strides, remarkably steady in those high-heeled boots, landed her directly behind the culprit. "All right, my pretty slave, I'll just have to help you along, liven you up a bit, hmm?"

Kitten's body froze and went noticeably tense, doubtless in anticipation of something painful. A slap on the ass maybe, that was the position they were in. Even her posture had adjusted to it, swaybacked now but still with an inherent grace, a hollowing of the spine that made her bare buttocks jut and billow out behind, more vulnerable than ever. Just like a real slave! As though consideration for her mistress was more important than her own welfare. Truly a display of subservient devotion.

The blow never fell, though. Instead the authoritative woman moved her arm down between the slightly spread thighs and then up into the crotch softness. Her thumb pried and probed for the tiny aperture, at last penetrating with a sudden push that brought a moan of dismay in response. Another moan – or was it a sigh now? – became audible when those long bony fingers curved upward and then inward in front.

"Okay, now march!"

The unexpected sight stunned me. I uttered a little moan myself, a sound of sympathy, goggling, aghast but unable to tear my fascinated gaze away. That all-powerful hand had a strategic grip certainly, clutching from behind, the thumb jammed up the poor kid's asshole and the fingers hooked into her cunt. Like a bowling ball. Only she looked more like a puppet, a dummy, a limp doll under the control of some unscrupulously obscene operator.

"Wiggle your ass! Yeah, that's better. Now around the room we go. I'll steer you. Some fancy maneuvers maybe, huh?"

They were fancy, sure enough. But a on the already bedraggled puppet. Kitten was I struggling to keep her skirt up, all bent over and walking spraddle-legged, awkward now for the first time, her body scrunched down and her ass pooched out in back, I had an intuitive notion that this, the fact of her awkwardness, was an outrage to her vanity, more agonizing than any slap on the ass might have been. Were those tears in her eyes, real girl-tears in those velvety brown doll-eyes?

I tried to watch her face, beautiful even in the throes of desperation. Our separate glances met and locked, almost a deliberately covert attempt at communication, and I realized that our similarity in age gave us a sense of kinship. I refused to feel guilty about that, seeing it as the start of a friendly pact, nothing more. Although I did wonder if this last rushing sensation of heat could have been the result of an all-over blush.

But there was something else in those eyes, quite puzzling, in this time of anguish. Then I saw her flawlessly molded pink lips quiver, a vaguely familiar sign; could it be true? Uh-huh. Impossible as it seemed, my young victimized young friend was sexually excited. I was sure of it. And now I felt less confused about their relationship, the mistress-and-slave setup. Oh, the benefits of a liberal education! Lesbian mistress, lesbian slave-girl. Never again would I be so dubious about such farfetched ideas. Freaky, freaky…

"There. That should do it. Now go around once more by yourself, show us what an elegant little lady you really are. And then you can come and thank me for being so nice to you. Would you like that, sweetheart?"

"I-I yes, ma'am, of course."

"You sound doubtful. Don't know how, hmm? But you'll figure something out, I'm sure. With a little help from me."

"Oooh!"

"You do understand, eh?" The hand pulled out with a squishy noise. "Good. And you'll just love doing it in front of company, won't you? Sexy little slave bitch…"

Once again her willowy self, Kitten minced around the room with her skirt held high, a leisurely paced tour that she appeared to be enjoying now. Her hot-eyed expression sent a tremor through my flesh. I had a hunch, though, that she was anxious to finish up and get to her next assignment. Adelaide had returned to her seat, quite relaxed now, but she too must have been impatient under that serene exterior. So was I, for that matter, practically breathless with anticipation, dying to find out how a slave-girl goes about thanking her mistress.

I soon learned. With that innate grace of hers, lissome as an old-fashioned curtsy to royalty, Kitten sank to her knees. Still peering upward, she licked her lips with the tip of a pink tongue. Then, slowly, she bowed her head and went deeper and deeper into a crouch. Until at last there was nowhere left to go, and she touched the toe of one boot. With that still visible tongue-tip. And then her lips. Humbly. But avidly, too, as the kiss began to slide over the shiny black surface, an open-mouthed kiss that seemed to interweave skilled ardor with sheer idolatry, making alternate use of the pink lips and pinker tongue.

Groveling now, she wrapped her arms around the booted legs, graceful as ever but obviously no longer concerned with putting on a show, no longer conscious of an audience. Nor did she appear even vaguely aware that the frock-skirt had crawled up her back by itself, baring her bottom again, even more lasciviously in such an abject position. From my conveniently advantageous angle of view I could see much of her face and most of her backside, all without undue strain, and the thrust of that cheeky rump left little to the imagination. Cheeky indeed, almost prodigious, surprisingly so for such a slip of a girl. I gazed enraptured, quite smitten by the creamy buttocks, the dark dividing crack; down below there was even a glisten of cunt-flesh and a hint of hairy fluff, in shadow now but still copper-bright with promise. It seemed to be throbbing – winking? – as if in invitation to an unseen lover. The lewdest of invitations…

But she was coming out of her crouch now, slowly, ever so slowly, gliding from insteps to ankles to calves. Such a weird spectacle, an all but unbelievable sight, the obsequious slave-girl licking the boots of her imperious mistress. Like a scene out of some bygone ancient era, a time when every patrician woman was served by a retinue of fawning slaves. Although I doubted if even an empress could have had the enviable good fortune to own such a paragon of beauty and humility. A paragon of erotic ingenuity, too, apparently, or so it appeared, as Adelaide's cool serenity melted away in a flurry of fleshy quivers and twitches, the flurried heat of desire, of sexual impatience. Uh-huh. She was making it quite plain now, interrupting the homage momentarily to lurch up and claw at her panties, sagging back down again only after the garment cleared the edge of her chair.