Her eyes were hard, cold, and very stern, her mouth puckered into a wry sort of smile that made it absolutely clear she knew what she was doing. There was a wicked mischievousness there, along with a healthy dose of plain old cruelty that I’d come to know very well over the last few years. The tresses of her chocolate colored hair, lustrous and shoulder length, framed her oval shaped and decidedly cute face and her slightly upturned nose just made the whole thing seem more ridiculous. How could someone who looked so sweet and adorable be so mean?
I swallowed hard and glanced around. We were sitting in the middle of a coffee shop, one of the new perks of Julie’s new job. Gone were the days of managing a small time junk jewelry store in a crowded mall. Now she was working for a big corporation, handling the day to day needs of an entire department, with an actual hour long lunch break. It had been Isobel’s doing of course, along with my former mistress, but still close friend, Kari Anders. Now Julie was already driving a nicer car and I’d been informed that in February I’d be helping her pack up her apartment. Even her attire had changed, and that’s saying something since she’d really begun to think “classy” a year ago. I don’t know how much Julie was making, but she sure as hell wasn’t shopping Wal-Mart any more.
It had only been five days since the New Year’s Eve Party hosted by the Society of the Golden Rose and already things were in a turmoil. I don’t think I’ve ever received so many fan letters ever, not even when I’d posted the original manuscript of my first initiation into the Society. And let me tell you - there had been some pretty upset people back then. I’d been busy writing of course, but Julie had already met with me, and taken me out, and I’d undergone some changes. Normally for a meeting like this I’d have been dressed in a micro-skirt and a halter top, the better to put me on display and humiliate me. Since it was in the mid-forties out, with me dressed in an open denim duster and the above mentioned attire would have been unusual enough to attract the eye, presuming the open-toed sandal style high heels or fire-engine red hair hadn’t done it.
But the fire-engine red hair was gone. Julie had made it clear that while she liked the crimson locks around my face, she wanted it toned down, a little more natural and so she’d spent close to two hundred dollars to fix it the way she wanted. Now my hair was shoulder length, like hers, easier to maintain and handle, and while I’d still be easily identified as a redhead, people would be wondering if the drapes matched rug, rather than what can of Sherwin-Williams paint I’d dipped my head in. To be honest, I thought it rather refreshing.
I’d also liked the new wardrobe Julie had started for me. She’d come over and gone through my entire collection of clothes. All of it. From work clothes to the stuff Kari had bought me over the years. It had taken four hours, and I think I tried on every article of clothing I owned, but she’d tossed most of the threadbare halter tops I’d been given by Kari in college, along with a few of the skirts that no longer fit me. To be honest, I almost felt bad that she’d thrown away that one pair of “skorts” Kari had given me in high school. Okay, sure. I couldn’t fit in them at all anymore, at least not without them showing everything, but they had sentimental value.
Julie had also taken me shopping and I was pleased, though still a bit embarrassed. Now I had a collection of skirts that came down almost too my knee, but had dangerous slits. In fact, I was wearing an ankle length, multi-colored skirt that did a very nice job of keeping my legs warm, provided I wasn’t walking. There was a slit up both sides that allowed my entire leg to literally step out of the skirt with each swing of the leg. It was erotic as hell, looked fantastic, but didn’t expose too much. Of course the slit went to the waistband and I wasn’t able to wear panties with the skirt, not if I wanted it to look decent.
My blouse was also daring, but much more respectable than some of the clothing I’ve been told to wear over the years. It was a black sweater, off the shoulder sort of thing designed to emphasize my breasts, but also sporting this curve that exposed my midriff. It wasn’t bad, and to be honest it was a lot better than some of the other things I’ve been given over the years. Still, Julie’s choices were still nothing I’d buy myself, ever. I’m dreading the day I have to wear the black gauze shirt that is completely see through except for the two “pockets” sewn into the front, which cover up my breasts and nothing else.
My lower lip trembled and I swallowed. Tense would be an apt word to use describing me. Every muscle was taut and I my breathing was shallow and erratic. We sat there at the coffee table, and I looked back up at her face. Her smile was fixed, almost wooden, and there was this slightly disturbing light in her eyes, as if she weren’t quite sane. She moved her hand and set it down near the remote.
The rest of Breanne's amazing tale is no longer available here on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog. You CAN find out what happens though, by reading Breanne's "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 11," now available from Amazon.com!