She was waiting for me when I got out of the truck and I stepped quickly toward the diminutive, chocolate haired girl that stood a few feet away. Her bangs were cut straight across her brow and the curve of her chin looked like a well-rounded heart. It made her adorably cute as well as pretty. She was leaning back against her fancy car with her arms crossed, a mischievous smile on her face and a wicked brightness in her eyes. Of the two of us, she was the more elegantly attired, a playful summer dress, folded in the cream and pink floral pattern of late spring, while I was dressed in the more familiar hues of a South Texas summer. She looked much more comfortable. As I got closer her face scrunched up in judgmental distaste and she shook her head as she looked at my cowboy boots, faded blue denim jeans, a dark green tee-shirt over which I was wearing an olive colored, long-sleeved button up work shirt. Hell, I even had on my big leather belt with the three pound buckle. The only thing I was missing was the hat.
“Well, don’t you look… cowboy today,” Julie said as I came up, leaning forward with a smile. Our lips met and we kissed. It took a few moments as we both got into it. A few years ago I’d have been nervous kissing a girl like that while standing in the parking lot of a mall, but today things are a bit different. Being bi-sexual, especially for a girl, is not just accepted, but appreciated by men. Especially if we’re willing to bring the partner along for a threesome. I can understand that. Men’s magazines, as well as the internet, have been conditioning men to accept lesbian and bi-sexual women for decades. It might be a little longer before I get sandwiched between two bi-sexual guys though. At least here in Texas. Regardless, it was a long, wet kiss.
“I look ‘cowgirlish’,” I amended smartly, pulling back from the sensuous touch. Julie straightened up off the car and started walking toward the entrance of the mall. I followed along obediently, just a half step behind. My boots made a sharp sound on the concrete and I pushed the slipping shoulder strap of the oversized purse I was carrying back up my shoulder. Julie’s sandals were silent, the high heeled cork absorbing sound.
Her nose tipped upward snobbishly. “Cowgirlish is a short flared skirt, bared midriff, and a too tight, barely buttoned shirt with your cleavage on display. You’re dressed like you just got off a horse.” She leaned forward and sniffed. “Smell like it too.”
I cringed, but then got a little defensive. “You’re the one who said ‘drop everything and meet me at the mall’!” I protested. “I was in the middle of riding Star and you know how that is.” Julie’s eyes softened just a little. She wasn’t much of a horse person but she’d been out with me a few times to know how much I liked it. I rode a spirited mare named Star and we’d been together for years.
“Which makes me think I need to ask about…” she started to say, but I interrupted her, a hint of redness coming to my cheeks. I knew exactly what she was talking about. I’d actually been hoping she’d have forgotten. Yeah. Like that would happen.
“It’s in. Just off,” I said quickly, holding up a hand. We approached the doors and darted forward to pull one open for her.
“Back pocket?” She asked as she slipped through the opening, her eyes glancing down my body. The large green over shirt I was wearing covered a good portion of my ass. It had been deliberate and I bit my bottom lip. I followed her into the building, feeling the cool air of the mall’s air conditioning system kick in. I looked around. The place had only been open an hour but it was already packed with people. That’s what a Saturday morning looks like. I took a deep breath, steadying myself for the normal reaction a crowd seems to have for me, but no one spared me more than a passing glance. Thank God. It was a nice change. Usually I’m an instant celebrity, and not the good kind. With fire-engine red hair I’m immediately on every man’s radar, and not a few women’s. But had I been dressed a little more provocatively, hell… even in a dress like Julie’s, I’d have been regarded as prime USDA choice steak. The hungry looks I’d have gotten would have been enough to make me nervous. I nodded at Julie, answering her question.
“Yeah,” I said. She grinned, wrapped one arm around me, slid her hand up along my flank, then pulled the pink battery pack and controller out of my back pocket. A thick pink wire leading from the palm sized box disappeared up under my shirt and then darted into my waistband, gliding against pale skin. I took a quick breath, bracing myself, well aware of what was about to happen. Julie didn’t spare a moment’s thought to where we were, or who might be watching, or what effect it might have. She just moved the little sliders up a single level and the two red LED lights glowed brightly.
Of course the little controller’s purpose wasn’t to turn on two small LED lights. Not by a long shot. My face was frozen into a mask of indifference, but if you’d been staring at me you’d have seen the subtle change in my stance, the rigidity of freshly caused stress; perhaps even an almost imperceptible twitch of my hips. The faintest prelude of a “bump and grind.” Or if you had been standing close enough you might have heard the perplexing, faint and muted hum of a pair of electric motors, churning and vibrating away.
Me? I felt my sex contract around the four inch long silicon and plastic phallus, the petals of my flower spreading outward as the base, a butterfly shaped pack nestled against my clit and perineum. One motor turned the finger like probe inside me, swirling through my depths like a soup spoon in a chef’s hand. The other engine merely forced the entire apparatus to rumble, shaking and trembling with rapid movements, sending spiraling waves of exquisite pleasure through my very core. It was like someone was licking my clitoris, fingering me, and pressing a vibrator against every single nerve ending. All at the same time.
I tried to ignore it.
Julie tucked the controller back into my pocket. “There!” She said satisfactorily, letting the flap of my over shirt fall back down over my rump. “How does that feel?” She asked cheerfully, as if she’d just baked a cake and was feeling this surge of pride.
I licked my lips, trying to get a grip. How did it feel? How did it feel to be on edge? Wet and wanting? How did it feel to have a soft but firm finger slipped into my cleft, only to have it vibrate and swirl in a maddening circle, teasing me into insane levels of sexual need? How did it feel to be standing there in public, frightened that someone would see, or know, or figure out just what that cute redhead might have going on down there? How did it feel to be so close to orgasm that you knew punishment was right around the corner?
I cocked my head to the side just an inch. “I’m fine,” I said by rote, my one million watt smile on my face.
Julie grinned, eyes flashing with mirth. “Good! Let’s shop!” She took my arm in hers and she pulled me down the corridor, every step a maddening maelstrom of sexual stimulation.
Julie is an avid window shopper and we stopped multiple times to take closer looks at various items. We’d be moving along, Julie talking animatedly about a zillion things as I became more and more distracted. Then she’d suddenly yank me into a store, asking my opinion on a shirt, or a skirt, or as often as not, something overly sexual. Short shorts, skirts, even lingerie. It made things much more difficult for me as my mind was forced to not only reply to her, but imagine her wearing those things. Or me wearing them. Time was not on my side and every moment we spent studying some knickknack that Julie suggested might be a wonderful object to thrust into me on a lazy, sexual afternoon, or scanty article of clothing might look good barely covering my curves, was additional seconds of torment affecting me. Still, it was better than the alternative. I knew what was in the bag and was grateful I hadn’t been forced to change into the outfit Julie had demanded I bring.
“Are you okay?” Julie asked me as I shrugged, pushing the strap of my canvas bag a little higher on my shoulder. I wasn’t okay and she knew it. My face was flushed, my breathing rapid, and each and every step she forced me to make was making the sodden swamp between my legs flush with moisture. My pussy was pulsing almost non-stop around the revolving phallus and I knew that wasn’t good. The RVP moved in me with an incessant caress and it had already been a full twenty minutes. Even on its lowest setting there was no hope for me. I knew it. I was minutes away from orgasm. I swallowed hard and nodded.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’m just… I’m…”
Julie grinned, reached up, and patted me. Except not on the shoulder. On the breast. Her eyes narrowed a bit and she cocked her head sideways. “Breanne? Are you wearing a bra?” She asked. Her tone was playful, mischievous, dark. She’d known damned well I was wearing a bra. She hadn’t needed to feel me up to tell. Even with two shirts on. The pat was intended to send a surge through me.
And it had worked. I whimpered, my entire sex clenching hard around the vibrating, rotating plastic toy buried between my legs. I nodded at her, eyes flinching as I struggled to keep my face from reflecting the torment I was feeling. Had I been in private I’d have thrown my head back, closed my eyes, opened my mouth in a soft moan, and let my hips grind in sexual urgency as I worked myself into orgasmic bliss. Here? Standing in front of a hip clothier while hundreds of people walked by? All I could do was freeze and hope for the best.
“Well, that’s not going to work,” Julie said quietly. “So go in there, go into the changing room, and remove your bra. Bring it back out to me. Right here.”
I blinked. “What?” I asked, my voice about as tight as my pussy. In fact, now that I think about it, the sound that emerged from my throat wavered with the same amount of trembling as my clitoris was enduring.
She grinned evilly. “You heard me. Your bra. Now.”
For a second I was going to say “but,” then reconsidered. You don’t argue with your dominant mistress about something like this. I nodded obediently and hurried into the store, leaving her leering at me from the corridor. It didn’t take me long. I grabbed a shirt off a rack to explain my presence in the changing room and then moved to the back of the store. Evidently my tense situation wasn’t that noticeable since a smiling clerk let me in, with nothing more than an appreciating smile for both my taste (the shirt was very expensive) or my figure. I moved into the tiny cubicle and began to peel off clothes.
I left my jeans on, but the over shirt went first. The buttons at the sleeves, then the six down the front. I dropped it on the bench and then faced the mirror. The tee shirt was green too, and not bright green like an Irish Beer Festival shirt, but more like something you’d find a soldier in the US Army wearing. I liked the color because it could handle anything a South Texas farm girl could throw at it. Heat, sweat, dirt… you name it. And it matched the over shirt. But then it came off.
Breanne Erickson's amazing tale is no longer available on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog. You can find it in Breanne's book "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 12!" Available from Amazon.com!