The Sweetest Reward

You have summoned me to attend to you whilst you shop. I am to be deferential in public and fine tune my antenna to your unspoken wishes and desires. My behaviour and manner are to be prompt and keen and selfless, but without being vulgar or overt. Two women ostensibly out shopping but with a delightful, erotic, controlled agenda...

You wish for me to wear your collar while out - it is a beautiful thing and easily passes for a piece of fine neckwear. You make me kneel at your bare feet and without a flicker of a smile; you attach it around my neck, gently fingering the spot where my pulse beats.

"You are always Mine, are you not?" you murmur, stroking my collar bone. "Yes, Mistress, I am always yours" I reply. "Whether or not you wear My collar". "Yes, Mistress". "Today, it will serve as a reminder and help to avoid your dirty little mind from straying from your purpose, wandering to pretty women as we shop or becoming engaged with anything other than My requirements. Is that clear, girl?" "It is clear, Mistress".

With that, you turn from me, instructing me with your eyes alone, to remain where I am, and you leave the room. I am in a heightened state of awareness at the upcoming expedition with you - want to please you so much and to be the very best, most attentive girl you have ever owned. So, I stay on my knees, thrilling to the ache in the bone and muscle and flesh.

You return with a bowl of water and a towel, soap and lotion. I am to minister to your feet. You settle yourself in front of me, cross your calves and present me with your right foot. With great love and care, I clean and massage your feet from toes to ankle. I know you enjoy the sensations I am producing in you – I can hear you stifling a moan and I can hear you sighing with pleasure. Your voice makes my stomach swirl with both lust and a sense of calm that I can’t name. At this moment, I would stay on my knees before you forever if only to prolong the peace in my soul and the flame in my belly.

"Pay attention, my sweet little girl" – your impatient voice wakes me from my reverie and I continue with my task until I have cleansed and massaged and soothed each of your much-adored feet. You sit back and appraise both me and the work I have done. I am poised before you, held rigid by a flux of feeling: delight at having been allowed to serve you; discomfort because my legs are hurting; nervous anticipation at your forthcoming reaction.

"You have performed adequately", comes your high praise and I am self-indulgently gratified for a moment. But you see the pride I cannot help but wear and a fleeting frown crosses your brow.

"Up!" you bark, "You will remember to do as I instruct for My benefit, not for your own!"

I am cut by your tone, stung by your words and the paradox hits me afresh, how I am so aroused by your seemingly selfish harshness. I long to bathe in my own reaction, to fill my belly and soul with the simple delight you give me, but I would not be permitted such self-indulgence. I am aching to touch you more, to continue further and higher and with more urgency and you see the need within me: "You are not only a filthy minded slave but a transparent one too."

Your voice is mocking and I am taunted by the forbidden proximity of you. Your self control is a far worthier thing than my own, your self-discipline a practised art. I am immobilised with delight at your feet and try to extend my boundaries with you a little:

"Please, most wonderful Mistress", I beg and flatter you with all my might, "Please may I not touch you some more? Kiss your feet, ankles, knees…..?" You are merely amused by my plaintive request and smirk coldly at me: "Get up NOW, bitch, and do not make me tell you a third time" I obey, as we both knew I would…….

Our short journey is one of intense concentration – you on your own thoughts and me trying with all my might not to rush or drive with abandon. So eager am I to get to our destination that I swerve around slow drivers and tut imperceptibly under my breath. You hear me and issue me an order: "Pull over now".

Oh, I’ve annoyed you, roused your displeasure. My palms begin to sweat – in sympathy with the dampness at my crotch and I can feel that special and particular mixture of anxiety and desire sweep through me. It is not yet a totally sexual desire; more a desire to be reprimanded, shamed and controlled by you. You understand me so well, read my needs so intuitively when you say to me: "Just calm down. You are behaving in the most pathetically obvious manner and I cannot abide it. The more you panic, the more errors you will make and then I will have to punish you, won’t I? I may decide to dispense with your services altogether today and summon a more competent girl. And you most certainly will NOT be permitted the reward of pain that I know you crave." I am suitably contrite and apologise to you for my shortcomings – I know you love to hear me make anxious and abject amends, they appeal to your innate desire for power:

"Mistress, I will try harder. Please, please don’t choose someone else, I’ll be good, I’ll be better, please let me show you how well I can serve you" And I must have phrased it correctly, for you turn your head to the side window and in the most delectably staccato tone, you tell me: "Very well, you may continue to serve me today. Drive on, my eager little girl".

We have been shopping for over an hour. It is hot and claustrophobic in every shop we enter, airless along every stretch of high street and so crowded that I have to alternate between hurried steps and a half-run in order to keep pace with your arrogant stride, cutting a swathe through the rabble. We have bought so many beautiful things: books and jewellery and soft, ripe fruit from a market stall. My arms are laden with bags and I ache all over. My feet are sore from traipsing after you and the strain in my arms is stinging and pulling. I have to keep smothering my tiredness which threatens to evolve into annoyance. I must give you no inkling or I will forfeit my reward. And I know there is to be a reward – you are not a heartless Mistress, just a most generously cruel one.

It is very late. Only the heartiest shoppers persist. Our last stop is a lingerie store. Before we even enter it, my exhaustion lifts. I adore such places – awash with silk and satin and lace. The sight of the garments renews my vigour and I feel my lips broaden in a smile, feel my breasts tingle and my cunt flood in unison, in anticipation of what may come.

"Mistress, do you need underwear?" I whisper to you. I can keep neither the glee nor the huskiness from my voice.

"My, but what a predictable little thing you always are. I may decide to buy, I may not. That is hardly your business, now is it? What I must do is try on a few items. And you will assist me". My reward could have been no sweeter.

You instruct me to choose for you. I am puzzled. I am nervous – how will I get this one right? But you have done it deliberately - given me this challenge as a gift. I am molten at the prospect of getting it wrong, incurring your irritation and impatience with me. And yet, I truly want to get it right. Such a contradiction – the desire to please coupled with the desire to fail and consequently provoke your fury. Such mesmerising fury…

So, heedless to convention between us, I chose what I would like to see you wearing. A black, laced bra that will push together your magnificent breasts, a fine and delicate black corset, embossed with tiny rosebuds, a pair of French knickers that will accentuate the curve of your hips and sit snugly along the line of your pussy. All the things I long to see you in. I am momentarily floored when I finish selecting and find that my concentration has led me to lose sight of you. If I keep you waiting, your fickle mind will snap and my reward will be snatched from me before it has been properly offered. But I needn’t have worried so. Across the store, I can hear your unmistakably haughty tones as you bemoan to the timid salesgirl the heat in the changing rooms. I am then grinning with delight; your inflection so familiar to me. Again, within me rise the twins of fear and excitement.

You are waiting in a small, shuttered cubicle and I ask you: "May I come in, Mistress?" The communal area of the changing room is occupied by a harrassed, preoccupied mother with her small child and the doors of the remaining cubicles swing open – there is no one to hear my vocal submission.

Hearing your delayed "Enter…" I go inside and am overwhelmed by the sight before me. You are naked. Naked for me? My legs begin to tremble visibly and my already wet pussy grows instantly more swollen and saturated.

You issue my most favourite imperious command: "Kneel, bitch. Show Me what you have chosen to please Me. You do want to please Me, don’t you?" This last from you as I hesitate long seconds: I am afraid that I will lose control and grab at your glorious body.

Coming to my senses, I reply that I do. Firstly, I select the knickers and hold them out for you to see. They are flimsy things, more a sheer piece of silk than an item of clothing. I finger them with such reverence. I know that you will flout store policy and try them on over your bareness. "Put them on Me, girl", you purr, and I am reduced to am fumbling fool at your feet. A mantra sounds in my head: do it right, do it right, do it right… You step your bare feet into them and I begin to pull them inexorably upwards, towards your pussy, which I am trying so hard not to fixate upon. The knickers are tight fitting and need some shuffling as they make their way higher; my hands produce in you a kind of backwards and forwards motion, like rocking to and fro….first away from me as I pull them up at the front and then towards me as I pull at the back. With every forward sway, your pussy is briefly an inch from my face, my nose, my mouth. My senses are too overwhelmed and my mind is too focused on them. I must concentrate…

When the waistband is over your hips, I rest back on my haunches and gaze up at you. You ask me to smooth the already flush material against your body, ensuring there is no pinching or sagging. My hands rise to rest on your upper thighs and begin a small journey. With both, I reach behind and stroke your arse, running my palms in small circles and dimpling the flesh with my fingertips. I cup your buttocks and squeeze gently and rhythmically, trying to coax from you a reaction. But there is none. And I am pleased; I would be flummoxed if you let down your guard.

"Are they comfortable, Mistress?" I enquire. "You have chosen too small a size, bitch. Was that deliberate?" you are smiling through your venom. We both know it was, but the game is too good to suspend. "Yes, Mistress". Oh, I want to grin so much, to express with my body how delighted I am inside. But I’m damned if I will. Our own etiquette demands I am selfless - to grin with such lust and joy would be overstepping our boundaries. But the desire to do so is just gorgeous…

"They are tight, are they not? How much do you like to see Me wearing them? What is it that your poor submissive heart desires? Describe your feelings fulsomely enough and I will reward you". My mind whirrs. I am lost to my thoughts. Keeping my gaze trained only on your face, I try to give voice to them: "Mistress, the material hugs you so finely, the seam at your crotch outlines the lips of your pussy – I want to reach out and stroke one finger along that beautiful, bulging ridge, press fractionally harder where I know your clit is buried, massage softly where I know you open and swell. I want to kneel closer to you and rest my open mouth fully against you – graze your clit with my upper teeth and lap at the material lower down, to make your juices flow and run through the silk and onto my tongue….."

I am feeling dizzy with the words, dizzy with hope. You are seemingly unmoved before me but I just know I am affecting you – your thighs are clenching and I can see with my peripheral vision that your toes are flexing and curling. You order me to stand. I am a little slow to my feet as I have been kneeling for some time and am stiff and aching. I try to be as fluid as I can and wait in front of you, my breathing raspy from the mixture of lust and effort. "Lift up your shirt, my little girl", you say to me and I comply with embarrassing speed.

"You have done well today but you know I am displeased with your impertinence. You were trying to satisfy yourself, were you not, when you selected this piece?" you say, fingering the material where it covers your pussy, smoothing the seam that nestles against your clit. "Yes, Mistress, I’m sorry for being selfish" I reply, almost managing but failing to completely mask the raw lust in my voice. "You would touch Me and lick Me now, were I to allow it, wouldn’t you?" I agree with a sort of helpless moan. "Well, you may not. You will, however, stand completely reactionless and silent while I torture you."

With that, your hands rise to my chest and between thumb and forefinger, you pinch my nipples. I feel them stiffen against your touch and sweet, sharp bites of pleasure shoot to my clit. I must separate my legs a little, widen my stance: my muscles are clenching and unclenching quite unbidden and I will lose myself, will come right there before you if I do not.

"You like that, bitch?" your voice sounds so sweet and caring, so lilting and loving. I rock on my feet, sway against your hands, my eyes closed and my pussy, my belly, my entire being crazed with desire. I am struggling to make my reactions imperceptible to you, but I don’t succeed. "Get back down on your knees. Satisfy Me. Make it good, slut, make it the best you have ever done for Me". And I do.

I worship you through the material – holding your hips to steady us both. Then I move the crotch to one side and expose your musky, perfumed, glistening cunt. My tongue darts and swirls and presses and my lips suck and my teeth nibble. My face is awash with your juice and I can feel you drifting into that joyful place. You are thrusting oh-so gently against my face and from the depths of my immersion, I hear you whisper: "Make me come now".

And I do.

The sweetest reward…