I’d ever seen in my life. I bit down so hard on my lip that I broke the skin, tasting my own blood as I pressed my legs together and squeezed, allowing the seam of my jeans to rub against my clit and bring me to orgasm.
After Charlotte went home that night and I was wiping down the clothes she’d worn that day, I decided to play a little dress-up. I slipped off my jeans and T-shirt and put on a red bustier and a pair of the Perspex stilettos that Charlotte often wore to walk up and down her clients’ spines. I stood before the mirror, loving the woman I became in this outfit. I took a cat-o’-nine-tails down from the wall and wielded it at my reflection. One day, I thought, I will flaunt this whip for real. I will find someone who takes one look at me and turns into a quivering lump of submissive desire, and I will torture that person and make him or her come harder than he or she ever had before, and when it’s all over, I’m gonna come, too, and it will be the most intense, amazing thing I’ll ever do in my life. I took the whip between my legs, rubbed the length of the handle along my gusset, let it caress my pounding pussy, and watched my face remain utterly expressionless as I had my second orgasm of the night. Only my cheeks, flushed a deep red, gave any clue to the state of arousal I’d just experienced.
After that night I would sneak into Charlotte’s wardrobe and dress up in her clothes whenever I got the chance. I grew bolder and more imaginative and soon began to bark orders at imaginary slaves.
“Kneel before me, you pathetic little prick,” I’d snarl at some fantasy man, picturing a grown male, helpless before me, his erect cock twitching and growing even as I belittled him. I taught myself how to control the whip perfectly and practiced locking and unlocking the handcuffs so that I could do them in double-quick time. When I was cleaning up the wet room, I imagined that the high-powered pressure hose I wielded was pointed at bodies, not simply washing detergent off the wall. I got so addicted that I would start to arrive early for my shifts to steal five minutes when I knew that Charlotte wasn’t going to be there. I was careful to put everything back exactly where it belonged.
I was proud of my professionalism; my system was so foolproof that Charlotte would never see anything out of place, never guess what I was up to when her back was turned. It had to end, of course. I was taking more and more chances, frequently spending more and more time in Charlotte’s clothes. Looking back now, of course, I think that perhaps on a subconscious level I was making my own behavior more extreme because I wanted to force the situation to a head. But even in my wildest fantasies—and God, I’d had a few—I would never have predicted the circumstances of my exposure.
The day it happened, I was working late. Charlotte had seen her last clients—a husband and wife who were celebrating his promotion by paying Charlotte to chain them together upside down while she turned the hose on them—at nine p.m. At ten p.m. she said good-bye, and then I heard the front door close and Charlotte’s expensive car purr away down the street. I went to work cleaning the wet room, scrubbing extra fast because I was in more of a hurry than usual to fool around and fantasize. I was trembling with excitement at the thought of that night’s session. The previous day, a new outfit that Charlotte had mail-ordered had been delivered and even she hadn’t had a chance to wear it yet. I’d seen it hanging up in the wardrobe and knew that I had to put it on at the first opportunity.
I held it up. It was a transparent plastic catsuit with matching stilettos. The whole outfit left nothing to the imagination: Its only concession to modesty was a sprinkling of crystals around the nipples and groin area, but they did more to draw attention to these erogenous zones than cover them up. Fingers fumbling in excitement, I took off my own
After Charlotte went home that night and I was wiping down the clothes she’d worn that day, I decided to play a little dress-up. I slipped off my jeans and T-shirt and put on a red bustier and a pair of the Perspex stilettos that Charlotte often wore to walk up and down her clients’ spines. I stood before the mirror, loving the woman I became in this outfit. I took a cat-o’-nine-tails down from the wall and wielded it at my reflection. One day, I thought, I will flaunt this whip for real. I will find someone who takes one look at me and turns into a quivering lump of submissive desire, and I will torture that person and make him or her come harder than he or she ever had before, and when it’s all over, I’m gonna come, too, and it will be the most intense, amazing thing I’ll ever do in my life. I took the whip between my legs, rubbed the length of the handle along my gusset, let it caress my pounding pussy, and watched my face remain utterly expressionless as I had my second orgasm of the night. Only my cheeks, flushed a deep red, gave any clue to the state of arousal I’d just experienced.
After that night I would sneak into Charlotte’s wardrobe and dress up in her clothes whenever I got the chance. I grew bolder and more imaginative and soon began to bark orders at imaginary slaves.
“Kneel before me, you pathetic little prick,” I’d snarl at some fantasy man, picturing a grown male, helpless before me, his erect cock twitching and growing even as I belittled him. I taught myself how to control the whip perfectly and practiced locking and unlocking the handcuffs so that I could do them in double-quick time. When I was cleaning up the wet room, I imagined that the high-powered pressure hose I wielded was pointed at bodies, not simply washing detergent off the wall. I got so addicted that I would start to arrive early for my shifts to steal five minutes when I knew that Charlotte wasn’t going to be there. I was careful to put everything back exactly where it belonged.
I was proud of my professionalism; my system was so foolproof that Charlotte would never see anything out of place, never guess what I was up to when her back was turned. It had to end, of course. I was taking more and more chances, frequently spending more and more time in Charlotte’s clothes. Looking back now, of course, I think that perhaps on a subconscious level I was making my own behavior more extreme because I wanted to force the situation to a head. But even in my wildest fantasies—and God, I’d had a few—I would never have predicted the circumstances of my exposure.
The day it happened, I was working late. Charlotte had seen her last clients—a husband and wife who were celebrating his promotion by paying Charlotte to chain them together upside down while she turned the hose on them—at nine p.m. At ten p.m. she said good-bye, and then I heard the front door close and Charlotte’s expensive car purr away down the street. I went to work cleaning the wet room, scrubbing extra fast because I was in more of a hurry than usual to fool around and fantasize. I was trembling with excitement at the thought of that night’s session. The previous day, a new outfit that Charlotte had mail-ordered had been delivered and even she hadn’t had a chance to wear it yet. I’d seen it hanging up in the wardrobe and knew that I had to put it on at the first opportunity.
I held it up. It was a transparent plastic catsuit with matching stilettos. The whole outfit left nothing to the imagination: Its only concession to modesty was a sprinkling of crystals around the nipples and groin area, but they did more to draw attention to these erogenous zones than cover them up. Fingers fumbling in excitement, I took off my own
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