Closure

 I pulled my white Jeep Wrangler into one of the few available parking spaces and sat there for a minute, trying to come to grips with the trepidation I felt inside me. It was a palpable sensation, one that started in the center of my abdomen, a tightness that creeped upward and downward through my body, snakelike and invasive. I glanced around the sunlit lot. The coffee shop wasn’t packed, not mid-morning, but it was still busy. But no one was watching me. No one seemed to care. And why should they?

I grabbed my purse and popped open the door. For a long time the act of getting out of my Jeep had been a highly sexual one, invariably accompanied by public humiliation, a sex toy of some sort, and intense, deep arousal. I’d have arrived naked, trembling with the fear of being noticed, only to scramble into some sort of ridiculously slutty outfit, my ass or boobs half hanging out, my sex soaked and stuffed with some sort of vibrator, the tips of my breasts throbbing in the pinch of a pair of wooden clothespins, bouncing with every step. My fire-engine red hair, dyed that way to attract even more attention, would have swung down past my shoulders while an anklet, encircled with tiny bells, rang out, drawing even more looks. On some occasions, the gold, charm-sized padlock that dangled from one of the two hoop piercings perforating my nipples, would glitter in the sunlight. 

Now? Not so much.

My reflection in the window of the coffee shop wasn’t any more of a surprise to me than my appearance had made to the few customers coming out or going in. And why should it? A forty-year old woman stood there. The crimson locks of my youth were gone, replaced by a colorless mousy brown that was too dark to be dirty blonde and too light to be a respectable, lush brunette. I wore almost no makeup, the crow’s feet wrinkles at the corners of my eyes perfectly visible. I’d put on weight too, adding twenty extra pounds to my frame that seemed to bulge out from around the blue denim jeans I was wearing.  

My outfit, on a warm Houston morning, was nothing like the sort of clothing I’d been required to wear before. Instead of high heels I was wearing cowboy boots. A narrow leather belt was wrapped around my waist, and I wore a soft yellow button up blouse that I’d hoped hid the pudge around my waist. No holes or daring cleavage. I looked wholesome. Boring even. Mousy, old, and plain.

But the real difference was something no one could have seen. No vibrator. No ben-wa balls. No Rotating Venus Penis. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. I hesitated for a second, the words flowing back through my brain like a mantra. 

A Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut should keep her pussy stuffed at all times, preferably with cock. If cock is not available, the nympho humiliation pain slut should stuff herself with whatever object or toys are available in order to keep herself sexually aroused and ready. 

And for a moment I bit my lip, trying to pull myself back together. It wasn’t easy. The tears welled up in my eyes. 

The last… almost a year… had been hard on me. After the pandemic, I’d made the decision to leave Kari Anders, my best friend, my employer, my lover, and my mistress, all rolled into one. Looking back, I realized that my mental state had not been good. The ostracizing effects of the pandemic’s isolation had pushed an already emotionally and mentally unbalanced woman into making a rash decision. Granted, there had been other reasons. Kari had been increasingly moving me toward an active role in her interior design business, wanting me to take on my own clients, as if I were a partner, rather than the sex-starved slut secretary sitting in her front office, impaled on a massive, vibrating dildo, trying not to cum but knowing I was going to anyway. And she’d gotten busy. During the pandemic, her work load doubled. So many businesses used the time to remodel, shutting down operations for construction. By the time Christmas hit, I was going absolutely crazy.

But I also had to admit that I was the real problem. I always have been. There’s just something off about me. Some sort of aberration. I swing between acute depression and manic functionality. And over the years, only the constant, mind-blowing application of sexual-euphoria kept those swings in some sort of check. Two psychologists diagnosed me with something called bi-polarism, a sort of mood disorder. I’ve also had a doctor tell me that I appeared to be hyper-sexual, but that might have been because I was trying to seduce him at the time. Either way, I’ve always been fucked up. Which is why I’d opted to leave Kari and submit to one of the cruelest, most vicious, arguably most intense dominatrixes I’d ever met. 

Lucille McGivens had taken me as her primary submissive and for almost two years wreaked havoc on my body, my spirit, and my soul. At first, she’d satisfied my every need, and there had been many. Suddenly I was wanted. I was needed. I was desired. And more importantly, every day was an intense round-robin game of sexual torment that left me cumming non-stop. Mistress Lucille had fucked me every which way a person can be screwed and her mansion up in the Woodlands had been filled with moans and screams. She had hurt me, humiliated me, and ripped thousands of orgasms out of my thrashing, bound, strained body. 

And I loved it. But Mistress Lucille wasn’t the kind of fire that smoldered, occasionally flaring up into instant conflagrations of temporary heat. She was like a coal-fired forge, burning hot and long and terrible. And I’d burned with her.

I hadn’t regretted abandoning Kari. Not then. Going to Mistress Lucille had seemed an easy choice. At least for someone suffering from depression, sexually frustrated, and ready to do something insanely stupid. But I still felt guilty. As if I’d betrayed Kari. And that had worn on me. My best friend from sixth grade. My first lover. My first mistress. And while Mistress Lucille’s attention was satisfying me physically, I knew even then that she didn’t love me. Every day I showed up at her mansion, naked except for a collar around my throat and bondage cuffs on my wrists and ankles. My pussy already wet and quivering around a pair of vibrating bullets, Mistress Lucille would satisfy her sadistic urges. At first her cruelty and sexual perversion had relieved my own physical needs. Lost in orgasmic ecstasy, I convinced myself that I didn’t need anything more to keep myself whole. And stable. 

And eventually it all fell apart. 

Leaving Mistress Lucille had been hard but we parted ways amiably, I suppose. She had made it clear that I was welcome back, when I was ready to submit. But other than removing the golden padlock hanging from my tit, she’d done nothing. It was as if two years of submission had been purely transactional. 

I hadn’t spoken much to Kari during that time. My daughter, Rachel, had spent more time with “Aunt Kari” than I had, and the few times we’d been thrust together, I’d been awkward, embarrassed, and unable to handle the guilt. I felt… awful. And so I’d avoided Kari. 

I was ten minutes early to the meeting. Kari’s favorite drink was an espresso and since I’d been the one who called and asked if we could get together, I figured I needed to be the one to buy the drinks. I got in line, eyes up at the menu, only to hear my name. 

“Breanne.”

I turned and there she was, sitting at one of the tables in the corner. Tall, blonde, and stunningly beautiful, Kari Anders’ blue eyes lit up like sapphires as I turned toward her, blinking in surprise. She wore a white blouse under a cobalt colored jacket, with a matching pencil skirt. Gold glittered at her throat, ears, and fingers and her Louboutin shoes were the same shade as her outfit. Two cups sat in front of her. I gulped and went over to her.

“Hi Kari,” I said, a rush of feelings going through me. I wanted to run away. I wanted to cry. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to fall on my knees and sob, throwing myself on her mercy. I wanted her to tear my clothes off and make me cum. 

I slid into the seat and looked at the cup.

“Chai Latte,” she said simply. “Is Rachel okay?”

I blinked and looked up. 

“What?” I said, then put two and two together. For the last three years the only time we’d really talked was when it had involved Kari’s god-daughter. “Oh. She’s fine. Great actually,” I said, feeling a little relieved. Talking about Rachel was easy. “She is enjoying her junior year. She’s taking culinary classes, and fashion design,” I said, lifting the cup and taking a sip. It tasted amazing. It was like suddenly slipping back five years. How often had I sat, just like this, in front of Kari? But then I caught Kari’s eyes and I felt myself breaking again. I put down the cup.

“Thank you for coming,” I said softly.

Kari’s eyes were soft. “I’ve always come,” she said. “I always will.” 

I almost lost it right there. Tears welled up in my eyes. “Damn,” I muttered, wiping away the moisture before they threatened to overwhelm me. 

“You let your hair go natural,” Kari said, trying to put me at ease. “It’s nice.”

I let out a snort, using the comment to pull a semblance of control back. “No, it’s not. It’s awful,” I blurted. “It’s mud colored.”

Kari smiled with a touch of amusement and took a sip of her espresso. I could smell the aroma of the coffee. I waited for her to say something, to take control of the situation. I wanted her to ask me questions, to order me to do something. Anything. I’d have done it. If she had ordered me to stand up and strip naked right then, I’d have been on my feet, shucking out of my blouse. But then I realized it was up to me. It always has been. So I looked up, straight at her. My throat tightened as the emotions rushed right back into me, tears looming. I had prepared a speech. A long drawn out explanation. Words rushed into my head, then disappeared. And suddenly, there was only one thing I could say.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. 

Kari’s expression was so patient, so caring, so loving, that it just made things worse. She reached out a hand, extending it to me. “You have nothing to apologize for,” she replied. “I failed you. I know that. I’m sorry, Breanne.”

I shook my head, my free hand wiping at my cheeks, which were becoming wetter. “No,” I protested. “No. I’m the one that left. I made choices that…” I swallowed hard again, “choices that were wrong. I wasn’t thinking right.”

Kari sighed and took another sip of her drink. “It was a difficult time. For all of us.”

I nodded. She squeezed my hand and let go. 

“I… I left Mistress Lucille,” I said. “In December. Last year.”

“I know. She called me the day it happened.”

That surprised me. “She did?” I said in shock. “Why?”

Kari shrugged. “She was concerned. She had been worried for several months. You were displaying signs of apathy, and even new sexual situations weren’t having an effect on you.” 

I licked my lips. Mistress Lucille had intensified things those last few months. I had thought it was her trying to find ways to keep me engaged, so that I would stay. It had just made my burnout even more intense. The idea that she’d been trying to help me cope emotionally was sort of… anathema to my understanding of her. 

“Oh,” I said.

“Breanne,” Kari said softly. “It’s been ten months.”

I looked up. “Let myself go, didn’t I?” 

Kari took a deep breath. I’d put on thirty pounds. I looked older than my age. I was… well, in all honesty, a wreck. 

“You’ve barely talked to Julie, or any of your friends from the Society of the Golden Rose. According to your daughter, you’ve worked four different jobs, all for minimum wage, and the only reason you both aren’t out on the street is because you’ve been taking money out of your investment portfolio.” 

I blushed crimson and looked away. She wasn’t wrong. I’d been fired twice and left once. The current job I was working was as a cashier at a grocery store and the manager was already giving me looks. And not the kind I’d have preferred. Too many call-offs. Plus she probably had already heard the rumors about me from the stocking boys. Breanne, the mousy middle-aged woman from the front, always looking for a cock to suck on her break. I took a deep breath and looked back at her.

“I’ve made mistakes.” The speech came back to my brain. “I wanted you to know that I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry that I didn’t talk to you. And…” I closed my eyes. “I miss you. I miss our friendship.” My throat tightened again. “I’m not asking for you to take me back, or to give me a job. And I don’t need charity. And I’ll understand if you need to keep some distance. It’s just… I needed to tell you. I’m sorry.”

“Breanne,” Kari said softly. “Are you following Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut Rule number one?” 

I froze. Suddenly the nature of the conversation changed. I felt the tightness in my throat move downward. Way downward. I gulped. “Um… no.”

Her eyebrow rose. “Why not?” 

I looked anywhere but at her. “Because… because…” I floundered. How could I admit that I’d given up? I rubbed my hands together. Was I still wanting sex? Yes. But I wasn’t sixteen any more. Or twenty. Or even thirty. I looked up. “Because I’m getting old,” I said, unsure myself.

Kari laughed and she looked amazing doing it. Gorgeous, smooth, and sexy. I’ve never felt myself to be in the same league as her. Her face is heart shaped. Mine is round. I look like a barge. She’s a sleek yacht. My breasts are too big. Hers are the perfect shape and size. I’m short and squat with bow legs from riding horses. Kari Anders is tall and straight and model perfect. She still looked young. Me, I just looked worn and old. 

“We both are getting older,” she assured me, the corners of her mouth curling up. “It’s nature.” She took another sip of espresso. “I read your last book.”

I cringed. “Oh.”

“It was well written, if a touch outrageous.”

I bit my lip. “Um… It was mostly written three years ago,” I admitted. “I just sort of cleaned it up and finished the ending.”

“Are you still writing?” She asked.

I shook my head. “No one wants to read the adventures of a forty-year old woman,” I replied darkly. 

“Not even your dedicated fans?” She asked.

I shrugged. “Not that many of them. We live in a different time. If I were eighteen again, I’d just make an OnlyFans page and hope for the best.” 

“So it’s not because you aren’t interested in sex anymore,” she said in understanding. “It’s the same reason you haven’t dyed your hair. And why you opted for an outfit that does not compliment you.” 

I blushed crimson. 

She leaned forward, eyes sparkling, a look of excitement on her face. “Breanne, why aren’t you following Rule #1?” 

I bit my lip. “Because I don’t deserve too,” I whispered. “I stopped being a nympho humiliation pain slut.” 

“But did you? Really?” She asked.

I thought back to work just the other day. I was on my knees in the employee restroom while De’Shawn, a young man from the produce department, stood in front of me, his banana-sized cock in my mouth. I looked down, suddenly embarrassed. I still craved sex. If Kari wanted me, right then, I’d submit instantly.  

“Breanne, what do you want?” Kari asked, and the way she asked it wasn’t as if she were exasperated, or upset with me. She sounded like Santa Claus querying a child on what they desired for Christmas morning.

Once again emotions threatened to overwhelm me. “I want to be back in your arms,” I said softly. “I want to be around you. I want to feel the slow burn of desire and satisfaction again. I want…” My voice broke and this time I realized the tears were flowing free. “I want you to love me again.” 

Kari reached out and took my hand, squeezing hard. “Breanne Erickson. I fell in love with you on a bus, thirty-four years ago. I have loved you since. And I love you now. I have always loved you.”

I broke. People looked over at us as I started to sob and Kari quickly stood up and came around to me. She knelt, taking me into her arms and I shook, tears wetting the shoulder of her jacket. It took me three or four minutes to pull myself together. Then she pulled me to my feet, checking her watch. I saw it.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I know you’re busy. Clients. We can talk… again… next week or…”

Kari laughed. “You have an appointment at the salon in forty minutes. This took about five minutes longer than I was expecting.”

I blinked. “A… hair appointment?”

She nodded, quite business like, scooping up her cup. “You are quite right, your hair is in desperate need of attention. I’ve scheduled you for a cut and dye. One thing I did appreciate was Lucille giving you the darker roots. But this afternoon, when we go to get our nails done, you’ll be a redhead again.”

My mouth dropped. “Nails?” 

She nodded. “And we’re going shopping. You’ll need new gym wear. And outfits for work. Presuming anything in your closet still fits, they aren’t appropriate any more. At our age, we need to look sexy, not slutty.” She smiled.

I stood there, shocked. 

“Tomorrow we’ll get the paperwork done. There’s medical insurance, direct deposit. Oh, and I’ll need to show you the new office. I moved out of that place downtown. I’m up north now.”

“What?” I gasped. 

“And just wait until you see my new car,” she added. “Plenty of leg room. Then we will pick up Rachel. I think a nice dinner would be appropriate, all three of us.”

And suddenly the tears started back up. I shuddered. I put my face in my hands.

“Oh! Whoa! Breanne?” She wrapped her arms around me. “Bre?”

“Thank you!” I said, sobbing. “Thank you!” 

And Kari Anders put her mouth close to my ear. “Don’t thank me. Not yet. Because when we get out to my car, you are going to pull down those awful jeans and I’m going to slip something deliciously thick and long into your little wet pussy. And then I’m going to turn it on. And you’re not allowed to cum.”

I pulled back, eyes widening. Kari smiled wickedly. “But you will anyway, won’t you?” 

I gulped, realizing that she was right. I was aroused. I was wet. I nodded.

“Good,” Kari said, taking my hand, pulling me toward the door. I barely scooped up my cup of Chai Tea Latte. “Because there’s nothing better than getting to punish my very own Nympho Humiliation Pain Slut.” She gave me a wink. “For being perfect.”