I stepped up to the front door and rang the
bell, my weight shifting from one foot to the other as I waited. It was the
heels I was wearing, the five inches of lift forcing each foot into a delicate,
visually stunning arch while making both my feet and back ache. The portfolio
book Kari had given me forty minutes before was in my right hand, heavy and
cumbersome, no doubt filled to the brim with drawings and material samples. As
the seconds ticked by I had to remind myself that the house itself was huge, with
eight bedrooms, four and a half baths, a stroke pool, spa and even a sauna.
More of a mansion really, than a house. If Mr. Darsten happened to be on the
other side of the massive floorplan, it could literally take him a minute or
two to get to the front door. The last time I’d been there I’d joked that he
needed one of those Segway scooters, just to get from the master bath to his
bedroom.
I smoothed down my dress. I hadn’t been
expecting to get sent out on errands when I’d slipped into my attire that
morning. Of course Kari had bought the outfit, not to mention requested me to
wear it, so it wasn’t like I had a choice. She purchased all of my so called
“work clothes”. I was grateful, but I sometimes wished that they all didn’t go
a few steps beyond risqué and venture into the “almost pornographic” category.
The top half of my dress was nothing but two strips of sheer white fabric
barely covering my full breasts and the gold piercings and padlock that
decorated my nipples were obscenely in view. So were the full, pink circles of my
areola. I’d driven to work with one arm wrapped around my top, just to keep
other drivers from getting a glimpse of something that made them want to get a
second look - thus causing a wreck.
The skimpy top half of the dress then melded
into the bottom, which was a mix of black and white, again in long panels, that
went down mid-calf. I liked the length, but none of the panels were connected,
leaving every swing of my leg literally stepping out of the dress itself,
exposing an indecent amount of skin. I had to be careful too. Large steps could
show way more than I’d have preferred.
I glanced back over my shoulder. The yard was
brown, thanks to the south Texas winter, which was at that particular moment a
comfortable seventy-four degrees and I took a deep breath. If Mr. Darsten was
actually home, I could drop this off and I’d be done for the day. No more
humiliation sitting in the front of Kari’s office. No more stimulation enduring
one of Kari’s sex toys. Just me. I could get out of the ridiculous, sexually
suggestive outfit and into blue jeans and a tee shirt, or maybe gym shorts.
Yeah. Gym shorts…
I heard the door open behind me. I whirled and
Mr. Darsten stood there, his penetrating brown eyes taking in my outfit. I felt
the blush creep across my cheeks. He’d done the same thing two weeks before
when I’d come out with Kari to do the initial evaluation. Of course the outfit
I was wearing then wasn’t quite as indecent as the I had on now, but it had
some suggestive elements that left little to the imagination. It hadn’t helped
that I’d been stuffed with a vibrator that day either. My hips hadn’t stood
still a single moment and he’d certainly noticed my indiscretion. Cumming in
front of other people, even quietly, isn’t the sort of thing they forget.
I swallowed, then smiled with nervous
embarrassment. “I’m sorry to disturb you Mr. Darsten. I’m not sure if you
remember me but my name is…”
“Breanne. You are Kari Ander’s assistant,” he
said both promptly and with a smile. “How could I possible forget you? Come in,
come in. I presume you’ve brought some of the initial designs?” His eyes
flickered down from my chest to the leather portfolio case in my hand.
I grinned. I guess he did remember me. But then,
considering he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off me the day I’d walked
around behind Kari, dressed in the stiletto heels, black mini skirt, and white
button up blouse with my breasts threatening at every moment to pop what few
buttons had been left on the shirt, I can kind of understand it.
I held up the portfolio case. “Yes sir. I have
it right here.”
He backed up and gestured, a polite, welcoming
motion of the hand and I stepped into his home. No Segway. He must have walked.
Mr. Darsten was in his late fifties, his hair shot with silver, and he had a
warm, engaging smile. I had no idea what he did for a living, but whatever it
was had served him well. His home was huge and filled with art. In fact, that’s
what Kari had been hired to handle. He’d wanted one room turned into something
resembling a gallery. In a cave. With a water feature. Not easy, but something
my best friend and boss could easily handle. He led me down the hall and to the
left. I expected him to show me into one of the sitting rooms, but instead he
walked me through the massive great room in the center of the house and then to
the dining room. The table was designed to seat at least twelve and I had a
pretty good suspicion that sixteen could have feasted easily enough. Had I been
laid out like a buffet, tied end to end I wouldn’t have stretched across more
than half of it.
“Here, just put it there,” he said, pointing at
the table.
I nodded and lifted the case. It was leather and
easily the size of a brief case, with a heavy metal zipper down along the side.
As I put it down I noticed him staring at me.
“Mr. Darsten?” I asked. “Is everything alright?”
He blinked and looked up at my face. I’m
actually used to that. Many men seem to become focused on my chest. Sometimes
it baffles me, since I’m not exactly sporting a pair of double d’s here. I’m a “pair
of grapefruits” only, which is hardly something to get excited about unless
you’re about to give them a good whipping.
“What?” He said suddenly. “Oh. Yes. I’m sorry. I
just got distracted.”
I smiled again, the heat of my blush going down
my neck this time. “I’m sorry if I’m causing you any undue distress sir.” I
apologized. I didn’t say for what, though I would have thought that obvious.
Gosh. I’m sorry for walking into your house dressed like a hooker? Gosh,
I’m sorry that my physical presence is making you think of throwing me down on your
expensive table and fucking my brains out?
The rest of this story is no longer available on Michael Alexander's BDSM Blog, but is available for purchase, contained in Breanne Erickson's book "Tales of a Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Volume 16." Get it now at Amazon.com!
