Madame B - Desire

"Oh, mistress, this hurts so good," she begged. "Please let me come! Please let me come!"

Charlotte immediately turned off the jet of water.

"What have I told you about begging me like that?" she said in a stern voice I had never heard her use before.

"I'm sorry," said the girl, her wet hair slapping at her pink breasts as she hung her head in shame. "I just need to come so bad."

"You'll come when I say so, you little bitch," said Charlotte, and turned the hose back on, aiming it right back at the girl's clit. Even from where I crouched I could see her pinky-brown pussy convulse a couple of times and her body, constrained by the iron shackles, stiffen and then grow limp as she surrendered to her orgasm. I squeezed my thighs together and rocked back and forth once. That tiny movement was all it took for me to come, too, harder and faster than anything I'd ever experienced. The whole thing from first sight to arousal to orgasm had taken about twenty seconds. I hadn't even had time to get wet, although my postor gasmic juices were now filling my jeans with a warm dampness. I pressed my sizzling cheek against the cool of the dungeon wall for a few seconds, and then backed away from the door.

Somehow I managed to compose myself and to complete cleaning the dungeon in record time so that when Charlotte and her client emerged from the wet room, I was upstairs, polishing a desk in the office. I watched as the client, now fresh-faced in a pink tracksuit and with her wet hair piled on top of her head, handed Charlotte one thousand dollars in cash. She kissed her on the cheek, thanked her, and said she was looking forward to seeing her at the same time next week.

"Well," said Charlotte, counting the money into the safe-deposit box, "you've seen what I do now. Are you shocked? Can you handle it?"

So she'd noticed! I feared I'd broken protocol somehow, but she seemed more amused than angry. I nodded my head and then went downstairs to clean up the wet room. Not only could I handle it, but I also loved it. And I couldn't wait until I saw it happen again.

In the next few weeks there was a marked upturn in business for Charlotte, and I'd often find that she had clients in one room while I was cleaning the other. I became an expert at tucking myself away so that the clients wouldn't see me. If they did, they'd see me in the reception area for the briefest second, and I wouldn't make eye contact. But I'd seen it all. My work at Charlotte's had become the highlight of my day, my addiction. I needed my fix. Whenever I knew she had a client in the basement I'd sneak downstairs, crouch by the door, sometimes using my fingers but more often just pressing my thighs together and rocking until I came. I learned to control my orgasm so that I could come in absolute silence. My bottom lip had a permanent scar on it from where I'd bitten down hard to keep the moans from escaping.

One evening I took my position at the door and saw Howie, naked but for a dog leash around his neck, kissing and licking Charlotte's boots. I had always suspected he was a client rather than a "business contact"-yeah, right. The sight of this guy (whose body was surprisingly buff now that he was out of that starchy suit) who made deals worth millions on a daily basis, naked and totally broken like this was the hottest thing I'd ever seen in my life. I bit down so hard on my lip that I broke the skin, tasting my own blood as I pressed my legs together and squeezed, allowing the seam of my jeans to rub against my clit and bring me to orgasm.

After Charlotte went home that night and I was wiping down the clothes she'd worn that day, I decided to play a little dress-up. I slipped off my jeans and T-shirt and put on a red bustier and a pair of the Perspex stilettos that Charlotte often wore to walk up and down her clients' spines. I stood before the mirror, loving the woman I became in this outfit. I took a cat-o'-nine-tails down from the wall and wielded it at my reflection. One day, I thought, I will flaunt this whip for real. I will find someone who takes one look at me and turns into a quivering lump of submissive desire, and I will torture that person and make him or her come harder than he or she ever had before, and when it's all over, I'm gonna come, too, and it will be the most intense, amazing thing I'll ever do in my life. I took the whip between my legs, rubbed the length of the handle along my gusset, let it caress my pounding pussy, and watched my face remain utterly expressionless as I had my second orgasm of the night. Only my cheeks, flushed a deep red, gave any clue to the state of arousal I'd just experienced.

After that night I would sneak into Charlotte's wardrobe and dress up in her clothes whenever I got the chance. I grew bolder and more imaginative and soon began to bark orders at imaginary slaves.

"Kneel before me, you pathetic little prick," I'd snarl at some fantasy man, picturing a grown male, helpless before me, his erect cock twitching and growing even as I belittled him. I taught myself how to control the whip perfectly and practiced locking and unlocking the handcuffs so that I could do them in double-quick time. When I was cleaning up the wet room, I imagined that the high-powered pressure hose I wielded was pointed at bodies, not simply washing detergent off the wall. I got so addicted that I would start to arrive early for my shifts to steal five minutes when I knew that Charlotte wasn't going to be there. I was careful to put everything back exactly where it belonged.

I was proud of my professionalism; my system was so foolproof that Charlotte would never see anything out of place, never guess what I was up to when her back was turned. It had to end, of course. I was taking more and more chances, frequently spending more and more time in Charlotte's clothes. Looking back now, of course, I think that perhaps on a subconscious level I was making my own behavior more extreme because I wanted to force the situation to a head. But even in my wildest fantasies-and God, I'd had a few-I would never have predicted the circumstances of my exposure.

The day it happened, I was working late. Charlotte had seen her last clients-a husband and wife who were celebrating his promotion by paying Charlotte to chain them together upside down while she turned the hose on them-at nine p.m. At ten p.m. she said good-bye, and then I heard the front door close and Charlotte's expensive car purr away down the street. I went to work cleaning the wet room, scrubbing extra fast because I was in more of a hurry than usual to fool around and fantasize. I was trembling with excitement at the thought of that night's session. The previous day, a new outfit that Charlotte had mail-ordered had been delivered and even she hadn't had a chance to wear it yet. I'd seen it hanging up in the wardrobe and knew that I had to put it on at the first opportunity.

I held it up. It was a transparent plastic catsuit with matching stilettos. The whole outfit left nothing to the imagination: Its only concession to modesty was a sprinkling of crystals around the nipples and groin area, but they did more to draw attention to these erogenous zones than cover them up. Fingers fumbling in excitement, I took off my own clothes and then slipped into the garment, enjoying the way the tacky plastic tugged against my skin as I pulled it over my hips and yanked the straps over my shoulders. Oh, yeah. It fit me perfectly. It was sticky but smooth on the inside, but the crystals that encrusted the outside were sharp and scratchy. Don't touch me, the suit seemed to say, or you'll get hurt, very hurt. I felt like Cinderella in a head-to-toe, deliciously kinky glass slipper.

The catsuit came with a bunch of accessories. There was a transparent plastic rope for tying up willing victims and a ball gag of the same see-through material, but my favorite piece was a whip with a smooth glass handle attached to long, thin plastic lashes also studded with crystals. I swished it this way and that, bewitched by the way the whip caught the light and refracted it into tiny rainbows on my skin. All whips, I was beginning to realize, have their own voice. This one had a high-pitched swoosh that sounded beautiful as I brought it down onto the backside of an imaginary slave. Just the sound of it was enough to get me wet between the legs. I felt my juices pool in the gusset of the catsuit and I thought to myself with a secret smile that I would definitely have to do a good job cleaning up this one for Charlotte.