The Check

I checked the time on my phone and stood up, smoothing down the material of the dress. My black strap stilettos, the ones with six inch heels, didn’t make a sound on the carpeted hallway as I walked down to see Kari. As I expected, she wasn’t in her office, so I took the ninety degree turn, passed the door to the small kitchenette, glanced to the left, and found my golden haired goddess hard at work in her art room.

To a casual observer, one would think that Kari’s art room is a chaotic mess of materials. As an interior designer, Kari possessed one of the more impressive collections of samples in existence. She had binders full of photography, books full of 2x2 carpet squares, stone samples in little plastic pockets, and stacks of miniature wood shingles. And that was just a short list. For art supplies the woman was stocked. Markers, pencils, pens, ink, hell - she had crayons. But despite the seemingly haphazard collection, I knew that each item had a very specific place - the consequence of an ordered mind.

And perhaps some obsessive compulsive behavior too.

Kari’s long golden hair was tucked back behind her ears along with a teal colored pencil. Far sighted, Kari had started wearing glasses to do the close up work and when I gave a soft knock on the open door frame, she looked up forgetfully, the spectacles making her eyes look like one of those Japanese anime characters.

Or bug-eyed. Depending on how gracious I was being.

I smiled. “Hey. Gotta go. First of the month,” I reminded her.

She eyed my outfit with a wry smile. “Yeah. I could tell when I walked in this morning.” She sighed and waved a marker at me. “Okay. No worries. I can hold the fort.”

I laughed. “You are the fort,” I reminded her. “I’m just the guard at the gate.”

“Dressed like that?” She asked mischievously. I glanced down. Sure, the little black dress wasn’t exactly meant for office work. No administrative assistant, receptionist, or secretary would dare show up at the office wearing it. Too short at the hem, my rear end was in constant danger of being exposed, and with the top tied to my neck and only barely flaring out to cover my ample breasts, my bosom was in constant threat of literally falling out of the material. There was no back except for a four-inch-wide lace strip that went from the collar to my tailbone, most of which was exposed. But hey, the dress had been cheap. Just five bucks from Fabshopper. Who could complain?

I smiled. “I might remind you that some of the ‘outfits’ you’ve purchased for me to wear at work have literally been more risque and obscene than this one.”

Kari smiled and shrugged. “What can I say? I like to see your naked body?”

I laughed, stepped into the room, rounded her desk, and kissed her on the top of the head. “You’re cute. Gotta go,” I said. Kari gave me a little wave and I swished my sweet, little ass out of her art space, letting my best friend forever, lover, mistress, and employer get back to work.

A few minutes later I was in my silver Saturn sedan, heading just a few blocks north. That late in the morning there was little to no traffic, and I wasn’t getting on any of the major thoroughfares anyway. Fifteen minutes of relaxed driving found me pulling up into a small industrial area. The warehouse I was looking for was small, meant for a business with just a few employees, but it suited our purposes just fine. And by “our,” I meant “The Society of the Golden Rose”, not Kari and me.

Several years before Kari had been inducted into a rather elite social group. To join, you had to first be invited. Second, you had to be female, though being a lesbian was not specifically required. Third, you had to already have in your possession, a submissive female who you were willing to share. Lastly, you pretty much had to be rich. The membership costs were steep - and I’m not talking like HOA dues. Think “expensive car”. In full, each year. And by expensive car I mean a current, brand new Corvette, not a Camaro.

The warehouse was actually a conglomeration of them. Five in all, with ours being the second from the street. There was a large, steel garage door, positioned four feet up from the parking lot, as well as a set of concrete steps leading to a glass entryway. I pulled into the lot. It wasn’t empty. Two of the other sections were occupied by functioning businesses, but I didn’t see anyone, and the space in front of the Society’s door was empty. That suited me just fine. Getting ogled while walking through the lot always made me quiver a bit. At heart I’m a sexual coward and conservative. My dress was overly risque and I’d have much preferred to be wearing a pair of blue jeans, a tee shirt, and and even a nice cowboy hat and boots. It’s not that I believed that a girl wearing a slutty, black cocktail dress was asking for it, but why advertise the goods if you aren’t for sale?

Yes. I know. Feminists are screaming at me in fury. How can I, an acknowledged and certified Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut, say such a thing? No. I’m not saying that wearing provocative clothing, or even walking around nude, should deserve being molested or worse. Never. But let me ask you this - if you don’t want a toddler to eat the cookies, why would you leave them out where they can see them?

See? It’s just common sense.

I closed the door of the car, my purse slung over my shoulder. As I walked toward the door, I felt the smooth, soft, rolling sensation of my ben wa balls, a pair of golf-ball sized spheres, connected by twine, that were right at that moment, buried deep in my sex. As I said, I’m a nympho humiliation pain slut and rule number one is that if I couldn’t have actual cock inside me at all times, something else had to take its place. Ostensibly the rule was designed to keep me wet and ready for sex at the drop of a hat (or pants.) But personally, I’m of the opinion that it’s really just meant to humiliate me - keeping a particular thought fresh in a submissive girl’s mind.

I’m a sex object, meant to be fucked and used.

Don’t get me wrong - I’m also a person. A lovely, wonderful person. At least I hope I am. My entire life does not revolve around me spreading my legs. Just most of it. And because I’m a little messed up psychologically (I have proof. I have a doctor’s file that says I am totally fucked up in the head,) I happen to like the fact that sexual arousal tends to color my worldview. While one little part of me was screaming in horror that I was dressed like an escort on the way to a job, wanting me to hide, run, and possibly buy a burqa (which yes, would be going way too far,) the other part of me relished my deviant, prurient, provocative, hyper-sexualism.

And I might, possibly, probably, be addicted to orgasm.

I stepped carefully across the hot, asphalt parking lot and climbed the stairs, my hands going to my rear to keep the hem from bouncing too far up and flashing the goodies. No one was really around to see, but it was habit, especially since I wasn’t wearing any panties. No bra either, in case you’re keeping score or something. It would have seriously clashed with the dress. I adjusted my top, just to keep my breasts from falling out, and looked around. No one. Perfect.

I tilted forward and used my thumb to type in the code. We’d had the lock changed for an expensive lock that required only knowledge to enter. I heard the latch click, straightened up, tucked a boob back into the dress, cognizant of the fact that I’d just had a major nipple slip, and hurried into the dark lobby. Welcome to the meeting rooms of the Society of the Golden Rose.

The lobby itself was about the size of Kari’s closet. The one in her condo, not the punishment closet in her office. Or if you want to be more realistic, the lobby was about the size of my apartment bedroom, which says a lot about either Kari’s clothes collection or my small living quarters. Back in the Society’s lobby, a small wooden desk sat in one corner, while two old, leather chairs were positioned opposite. There was some art on the walls, but it was non-descript, just some metal, sculpture type pieces that Kari had hung when we got the place, to add some flare. A ficus tree stood near the glass door. I wasn’t sure if it was fake or not. I’d never watered it and it was still green.

A hallway led off toward the main floor and the light from outside didn’t penetrate very far. I passed the door to the restrooms. We had two of them, and then I glanced into the kitchen. Dark. I kept going and the industrial carpet suddenly changed in texture and thickness into something thick, heavy, and padded. My heels sank down considerably, though there was at least no shag. It would have sucked to catch a spike on a carpet loop and take a tumble!

The idea, of course, was to make it easier on the submissives, who weren’t expected to be walking on the carpet, even in ridiculous shoes. We were expected to be kneeling on it. Or flat on our backs, legs spread, waiting for whatever torment, punishment, or pleasure the nearest mistress felt like inflicting upon us. I’d spent some quality hours on that carpet.

A divider wall, three quarters of the way back, had been partially pulled across the space and the only reason I could see it was because a single light had been left on. I didn’t know if it was on an emergency circuit, or deliberate, but it illuminated the divider enough that I could see it. Behind the wall was where we stored all of the medieval torture devices we owned, each custom made, of high quality materials, each designed for some aspect of sexual deviance generally shunned by the common populace unless featured in some “shades of gray” movie or novel. None of them were out though, leaving most of the meeting room empty, save for the scattered setees, couches, and other seating areas, pushed to the sides, meant for mistresses and their submissives to socialize. If that’s what you want to call it.

But the light from above did illuminate one thing. Someone had left a bondage mattress out. Merely a full sized mattress with a waterproof cover and a fitted sheet, special holes had been cut in the bedclothes, leaving room for the four, black straps sewn directly to the mattress itself. I’m sure you can picture it. Imagine a pristine, white bed, and at each corner, black bondage straps, which were attached too … you guessed it! Bondage cuffs! Leather ones. It sort of came as a package deal.

I frowned. Criminy. I hate it when people don’t clean up after themselves! I mean, really! No doubt Mistress Savannah had dragged Kylie in here, tied her down and ravished her. Or maybe it was Mistress Isobel, the current matron of the society, electing to give her little French maid submissive Madeline a lesson in manners and a rubber baguette. Or hell, it could have be Margaret, bringing her pet girl Lisa in… except… that was actually unlikely. Lisa took “fucked up” way beyond anything I do. She lives like a dog. As a dog. She actually barks.

It’s disturbing.

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 17."  Get it now at Amazon.com!