The New Year - Part One

In general, I’m not a fur coat sort of girl.  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a PETA activist or anything, even though PETA activists spend almost as much time naked as I do.  But my distaste stems from something more mundane.  I’m a South Texas farm girl. I wear blue jeans and boots and tee shirts.  And the few times I’ve been made to put on a fur coat has always made me feel uncomfortable, like I was pretending to be something I’m not.  I can go for costumes, but a fur coat?  That’s not a costume. It’s a statement.  And yet, I was grateful for the one I was wearing. It was cold and to be honest, I wished the coat was longer, since my legs and feet were freezing.  My bare toes peeked out of a pair of sandal style shoes with four inch tall heels.  I swear, Kari’s obsession with my feet being as bare and arched as possible will be the death of me.  Maybe this is why I caught pneumonia last year…

The dress I was wearing, if you could call it that, was of absolutely no help.  Made of some elastic, half gauze half lyrca type material, it lacked any insulating attributes whatsoever.  Worse, someone named Kari had taken an Exacto knife to various parts of the dress, ventilating it from collar to hem, as well as the small of my back downward.  I’d been shocked when I first put it on and found my boobs hanging out well in front of my attire.  I looked like a fish caught in a net, or a trussed up sausage.  But maybe that was the idea. After all, we were going to a party; a rather special, New Year’s Eve party and I had to look the part.

I was accessorized too though.  The bling is just as important right?  But most women would have found the spangles I wore to be a little much, even demeaning.  Instead of a fancy necklace that drew the eye to the graceful lines of my neck, or maybe even my impressive cleavage, I wore a black leather collar studded with four steel loops.  It was buckled tightly around my throat so that it resembled a choker.  Instead of silver bracelets, both of my wrists were bound in bondage cuffs, the steel buckles and additional metal hoops ringing with the key chain type clasps that had been attached.  I was told that the matching cuffs on my ankles were there purely for aesthetic value, but I’m not an idiot.  They were functional and bore matching clips that I could feel dangling down against my heels.   

Unlike the monthly meetings of the Society of the Golden Rose, an upscale lesbian BDSM club catering to the ultra-rich and their deviant minded submissives, this party was something special.  It was a chance for the divas to glitter and shine, to get dressed up in all their finery. To really put on a show.  And even though I was well aware that I, as well as my fellow submissives were the show, I couldn’t really feel unhappy about the situation.  Everyone would be there.  

Kari was a bit quiet during the whole “getting ready” process.  She’d selected my dress, done my make-up and hair, and then assisted me into my wardrobe.  Finally we were ready and I’d slipped on the fur coat she’d bought me a year and a half ago and we were ready.  The cold winter air had attacked my lower half so I was grateful Kari had the heater cranked all the way up.  We drove north to Tomball and about forty-five minutes after leaving Kari’s condominium, we pulled up in front of a well-lit home.

Home?  Mansion would be a better way to describe it.  At least from my perspective.  It was four times bigger than my family’s farm house, which isn’t exactly modest.  But this place?  Wow.  It was a Victorian style with a healthy mix of New England.  Everything was painted white or this light cream, with darker grays for the eaves and shutters.  The landscaping was trimmed back for winter, but there were still leaves on the boxwoods and the jasmine still crept along the beds.  There were about a dozen cars parked along the road and on the driveway.  Kari pulled up and we got out.  I hurried toward the door as Kari followed more sedately.  

“Are you okay?” I asked, my breath steaming in the air.  Cold air was wafting up under the coat and since I wasn’t wearing any panties, and the dress provided zero assistance in resisting the chill, my moist and bare petals were getting a bit frigid.

Kari smiled at me and nodded, choosing not to say anything.  I thought it damned peculiar and it made me stop right there on the sidewalk leading to the front door.

“Kari?”

The blond vixen in front of me turned and looked back.  She was wearing a long black coat which covered up a glittering red dress that made her look like a runway model.  Kari is thin and tall and her straight locks hung down well past her shoulders.  There was this look in her eyes that made me quiver, all the way down to my toes.  I’d met her in sixth grade, gone through puberty with her, discovered sex, became her submissive, allowed her to dye my mousy brown hair fire-engine red, and given my body to her so many times I’d lost count. We went to the same college, lived together, eaten together, suffered together.  

“Breanne,” she said softly, reaching out and putting her hand on my arm. “I’m fine. Really.”

I gave her a suspicious look but then shrugged.  If she didn’t want to tell me, then she didn’t have to.  But I’d known her for most of my life.  I knew something wasn’t right.  

We climbed the steps of the front porch.  There was a swinging bench and the windows were curtained with a fine gauze that gave a hint of movement inside but concealed everything.  Kari rang the bell and a moment later the door opened.

By a little French maid.

“Good evening, Mistress Kari,” Madeline said, doing this cute little curtsey.  Her eyes flashed to me and I grinned back.  Madeline was wearing her maid’s uniform, which to be honest, was more suited for a porn shoot than actual chores.  The skirt was just a pair of ruffles, white under black and didn’t cover anything lower than her hips.  Her bare slit was wet and just as obviously stuffed with something motorized because I could see a bright pink wire emerging from between the flared petals of Madeline’s sex.  The shirt she wore seemed to be missing some key parts, like a front.  It buttoned up fine, just under her breasts, sported a gaping hole for Madeline’s bosom, and then buttoned up to the neck.  She wore a collar like mine and there was one other little item we shared.  On her right nipple there was a piercing; a gold hoop which also sported a charm sized padlock.  There was a black enameled rose on the lock; the sigil of the Society.

“Can I take your coats?” she asked graciously as the door was shut behind us.  Kari shrugged out of her coat first.  I would have been loath to remove my own, if I hadn’t already felt the blessed heat wafting over me.  I slid out of the furs and watched with a certain amount of satisfaction as Madeline’s eyes saw my dress.  I could tell she wanted to say something, but instead she just gave  me a wink and took my coat, laying it over Kari’s.

“Please enjoy the festivities,” she said.  

I’d never been to Isobel’s house before but the first thing I noticed was that it looked like a Pottery Barn store had exploded everywhere.  The place reeked of it.  Don’t get me wrong. I like Pottery Barn. It has nice furniture and accessories.  But Isobel’s mansion was decorated in that singular style throughout.  I could see Kari wrinkling her nose.  I couldn’t help but agree.  Too many beiges, creams, and sage.  It needed color.  On the flip side, it would always be easy to find Kari.  She was the only one wearing bright red.  

There was a study on the left, lined with book shelves with a beautiful desk. A formal dining room was on the right.  Both were occupied by a number of women, all of whom I knew intimately.  And when I say intimately, I mean just that.  One of the perks of the Society is variety. I’d had sexual relations with everyone at one point or another, and while some of the mistresses weren’t my favorite to spend time with, there was no one I didn’t really like.  

The first thing I noticed was that Madeline and I weren’t the only ones forced to strut our stuff.  Every submissive was wearing something revealing.  Georgia Tai was dressed in what appeared to be a sari, but transparent.  Underneath the material her skin had been decorated with gold colored henna designs which swirled from one shoulder, down across her breasts, to turn and swing past her navel, crossing a hip, dancing back toward her bare sex, and then down her right leg to her ankle.  Like Madeline and I, her right nipple was pierced and you could see the padlock.  Rather than bondage cuffs, she wore bracelets on ankle and wrist, each spangled and ringing lightly with every step.

Wendy was there too, wearing a short, pink number with a plunging neck line.  Disturbingly, her bondage cuffs matched the color of her dress. Kaitlin wore a white, floor length gown that would have almost been appropriate for a wedding, except that the front was a flowing mesh gauze material that left her prurient parts completely exposed.  Everywhere there was a flash of gold and symbol of the Society.

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!