with her hands in handcuffs and her legs forced apart by a pair of leg irons. Charlotte was taking turns blasting the girl’s tits and then her clit with water. When she trained the hose on her breasts, the flesh dented as though poked by an invisible finger, and the woman’s nipples, flushed dark brown and highly erect, moved in a series of jiggled, jerky movements. Just when I thought she couldn’t take any more, Charlotte would direct the gushing jet against the girl’s clit. I watched, crazy with arousal, as the water pummeled the girl’s pussy and thighs.
“Oh, mistress, this hurts so good,” she begged. “Please let me come! Please let me come!”
Charlotte immediately turned off the jet of water.
“What have I told you about begging me like that?” she said in a stern voice I had never heard her use before.
“I’m sorry,” said the girl, her wet hair slapping at her pink breasts as she hung her head in shame. “I just need to come so bad.”
“You’ll come when I say so, you little bitch,” said Charlotte, and turned the hose back on, aiming it right back at the girl’s clit. Even from where I crouched I could see her pinky-brown pussy convulse a couple of times and her body, constrained by the iron shackles, stiffen and then grow limp as she surrendered to her orgasm. I squeezed my thighs together and rocked back and forth once. That tiny movement was all it took for me to come, too, harder and faster than anything I’d ever experienced. The whole thing from first sight to arousal to orgasm had taken about twenty seconds. I hadn’t even had time to get wet, although my postor gasmic juices were now filling my jeans with a warm dampness. I pressed my sizzling cheek against the cool of the dungeon wall for a few seconds, and then backed away from the door.
Somehow I managed to compose myself and to complete cleaning the dungeon in record time so that when Charlotte and her client emerged from the wet room, I was upstairs, polishing a desk in the office. I watched as the client, now fresh-faced in a pink tracksuit and with her wet hair piled on top of her head, handed Charlotte one thousand dollars in cash. She kissed her on the cheek, thanked her, and said she was looking forward to seeing her at the same time next week.
“Well,” said Charlotte, counting the money into the safe-deposit box, “you’ve seen what I do now. Are you shocked? Can you handle it?”
So she’d noticed! I feared I’d broken protocol somehow, but she seemed more amused than angry. I nodded my head and then went downstairs to clean up the wet room. Not only could I handle it, but I also loved it. And I couldn’t wait until I saw it happen again.
In the next few weeks there was a marked upturn in business for Charlotte, and I’d often find that she had clients in one room while I was cleaning the other. I became an expert at tucking myself away so that the clients wouldn’t see me. If they did, they’d see me in the reception area for the briefest second, and I wouldn’t make eye contact. But I’d seen it all. My work at Charlotte’s had become the highlight of my day, my addiction. I needed my fix. Whenever I knew she had a client in the basement I’d sneak downstairs, crouch by the door, sometimes using my fingers but more often just pressing my thighs together and rocking until I came. I learned to control my orgasm so that I could come in absolute silence. My bottom lip had a permanent scar on it from where I’d bitten down hard to keep the moans from escaping.
One evening I took my position at the door and saw Howie, naked but for a dog leash around his neck, kissing and licking Charlotte’s boots. I had always suspected he was a client rather than a “business contact”—yeah, right. The sight of this guy (whose body was surprisingly buff now that he was out of that starchy suit) who made deals worth millions on a daily basis, naked and totally broken like this was the hottest thing
“Oh, mistress, this hurts so good,” she begged. “Please let me come! Please let me come!”
Charlotte immediately turned off the jet of water.
“What have I told you about begging me like that?” she said in a stern voice I had never heard her use before.
“I’m sorry,” said the girl, her wet hair slapping at her pink breasts as she hung her head in shame. “I just need to come so bad.”
“You’ll come when I say so, you little bitch,” said Charlotte, and turned the hose back on, aiming it right back at the girl’s clit. Even from where I crouched I could see her pinky-brown pussy convulse a couple of times and her body, constrained by the iron shackles, stiffen and then grow limp as she surrendered to her orgasm. I squeezed my thighs together and rocked back and forth once. That tiny movement was all it took for me to come, too, harder and faster than anything I’d ever experienced. The whole thing from first sight to arousal to orgasm had taken about twenty seconds. I hadn’t even had time to get wet, although my postor gasmic juices were now filling my jeans with a warm dampness. I pressed my sizzling cheek against the cool of the dungeon wall for a few seconds, and then backed away from the door.
Somehow I managed to compose myself and to complete cleaning the dungeon in record time so that when Charlotte and her client emerged from the wet room, I was upstairs, polishing a desk in the office. I watched as the client, now fresh-faced in a pink tracksuit and with her wet hair piled on top of her head, handed Charlotte one thousand dollars in cash. She kissed her on the cheek, thanked her, and said she was looking forward to seeing her at the same time next week.
“Well,” said Charlotte, counting the money into the safe-deposit box, “you’ve seen what I do now. Are you shocked? Can you handle it?”
So she’d noticed! I feared I’d broken protocol somehow, but she seemed more amused than angry. I nodded my head and then went downstairs to clean up the wet room. Not only could I handle it, but I also loved it. And I couldn’t wait until I saw it happen again.
In the next few weeks there was a marked upturn in business for Charlotte, and I’d often find that she had clients in one room while I was cleaning the other. I became an expert at tucking myself away so that the clients wouldn’t see me. If they did, they’d see me in the reception area for the briefest second, and I wouldn’t make eye contact. But I’d seen it all. My work at Charlotte’s had become the highlight of my day, my addiction. I needed my fix. Whenever I knew she had a client in the basement I’d sneak downstairs, crouch by the door, sometimes using my fingers but more often just pressing my thighs together and rocking until I came. I learned to control my orgasm so that I could come in absolute silence. My bottom lip had a permanent scar on it from where I’d bitten down hard to keep the moans from escaping.
One evening I took my position at the door and saw Howie, naked but for a dog leash around his neck, kissing and licking Charlotte’s boots. I had always suspected he was a client rather than a “business contact”—yeah, right. The sight of this guy (whose body was surprisingly buff now that he was out of that starchy suit) who made deals worth millions on a daily basis, naked and totally broken like this was the hottest thing
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