clothes and then slipped into the garment, enjoying the way the tacky plastic tugged against my skin as I pulled it over my hips and yanked the straps over my shoulders. Oh, yeah. It fit me perfectly. It was sticky but smooth on the inside, but the crystals that encrusted the outside were sharp and scratchy. Don’t touch me, the suit seemed to say, or you’ll get hurt, very hurt. I felt like Cinderella in a head-to-toe, deliciously kinky glass slipper.
The catsuit came with a bunch of accessories. There was a transparent plastic rope for tying up willing victims and a ball gag of the same see-through material, but my favorite piece was a whip with a smooth glass handle attached to long, thin plastic lashes also studded with crystals. I swished it this way and that, bewitched by the way the whip caught the light and refracted it into tiny rainbows on my skin. All whips, I was beginning to realize, have their own voice. This one had a high-pitched swoosh that sounded beautiful as I brought it down onto the backside of an imaginary slave. Just the sound of it was enough to get me wet between the legs. I felt my juices pool in the gusset of the catsuit and I thought to myself with a secret smile that I would definitely have to do a good job cleaning up this one for Charlotte.
I parted my legs, held my arms aloft in a real don’t-fuck-with-me stance, and sneered at my reflection in the mirror. I closed my eyes and imagined what I would do if I had a slave here. I began to picture a faceless man prostrate at my feet, licking my boots, trembling under the force of my whip. I was just beginning to lose myself in the fantasy and feel the first familiar stir-rings of orgasm when I heard the footsteps descend the steel staircase. My flesh turned to ice. I realized with a shock that in my haste to get down here and raid the dress-up box I hadn’t actually locked the door behind me. The footsteps could belong to anyone—a client or, even worse, someone off the street. I was petrified in my pose.
“Hello? Charlotte?” came a voice I recognized. “Mistress? Are you there? I know I don’t have an appointment, but I need to see you. I’ve been bad. I’ve done some terrible things, and I really need a dose of your punishment.”
Howie. That twang was unmistakable. As he got closer, I still had no clue what I would do when he came in. For a few seconds we locked eyes, and I saw him gulp in surprise. I thought quickly. I could do this in one of two ways. I could beg Howie not to tell Charlotte, plead with him to keep this secret, and let me keep my job. But his voice had been trembling and his words highly charged. I wasn’t sure Howie was in any state to be reasoned with. Or—and the thought of this option made my plastic-clad pussy pulse a little faster—I could just go for it. I was in the right clothes. I was in the right frame of mind. I could do this. I stamped my stiletto heel on the ground so hard I thought the shoe would shatter and gave Howie the withering look I’d practiced on all the imaginary slaves in my fantasies.
“Did I give you permission to speak to me?” I said, my voice pouring contempt on him.
“No,” he said, bowing his head.
“Look at you,” I continued. “How dare you enter my dungeon dressed? Where is your respect? Take your clothes off. Quickly!” Now it was Howie’s turn to undress with trembling hands. He removed his expensive work clothes and hung them on the hook on the back of the door. The body that lay beneath was impressive: tall, broadly muscular without being too defined. His dick was thick and semi-erect between his legs, his balls shaven. I’ll soon stiffen you up, I thought, as I squeezed my legs together.
“Tell me what you’ve done,” I said, pretending to inspect my nails. I kept my voice harsh and controlled, but inside I was going mad, my pussy pumping so hard I was sure it must be visible to Howie in my catsuit, a garment that gave a girl nowhere to hide. “Tell
The catsuit came with a bunch of accessories. There was a transparent plastic rope for tying up willing victims and a ball gag of the same see-through material, but my favorite piece was a whip with a smooth glass handle attached to long, thin plastic lashes also studded with crystals. I swished it this way and that, bewitched by the way the whip caught the light and refracted it into tiny rainbows on my skin. All whips, I was beginning to realize, have their own voice. This one had a high-pitched swoosh that sounded beautiful as I brought it down onto the backside of an imaginary slave. Just the sound of it was enough to get me wet between the legs. I felt my juices pool in the gusset of the catsuit and I thought to myself with a secret smile that I would definitely have to do a good job cleaning up this one for Charlotte.
I parted my legs, held my arms aloft in a real don’t-fuck-with-me stance, and sneered at my reflection in the mirror. I closed my eyes and imagined what I would do if I had a slave here. I began to picture a faceless man prostrate at my feet, licking my boots, trembling under the force of my whip. I was just beginning to lose myself in the fantasy and feel the first familiar stir-rings of orgasm when I heard the footsteps descend the steel staircase. My flesh turned to ice. I realized with a shock that in my haste to get down here and raid the dress-up box I hadn’t actually locked the door behind me. The footsteps could belong to anyone—a client or, even worse, someone off the street. I was petrified in my pose.
“Hello? Charlotte?” came a voice I recognized. “Mistress? Are you there? I know I don’t have an appointment, but I need to see you. I’ve been bad. I’ve done some terrible things, and I really need a dose of your punishment.”
Howie. That twang was unmistakable. As he got closer, I still had no clue what I would do when he came in. For a few seconds we locked eyes, and I saw him gulp in surprise. I thought quickly. I could do this in one of two ways. I could beg Howie not to tell Charlotte, plead with him to keep this secret, and let me keep my job. But his voice had been trembling and his words highly charged. I wasn’t sure Howie was in any state to be reasoned with. Or—and the thought of this option made my plastic-clad pussy pulse a little faster—I could just go for it. I was in the right clothes. I was in the right frame of mind. I could do this. I stamped my stiletto heel on the ground so hard I thought the shoe would shatter and gave Howie the withering look I’d practiced on all the imaginary slaves in my fantasies.
“Did I give you permission to speak to me?” I said, my voice pouring contempt on him.
“No,” he said, bowing his head.
“Look at you,” I continued. “How dare you enter my dungeon dressed? Where is your respect? Take your clothes off. Quickly!” Now it was Howie’s turn to undress with trembling hands. He removed his expensive work clothes and hung them on the hook on the back of the door. The body that lay beneath was impressive: tall, broadly muscular without being too defined. His dick was thick and semi-erect between his legs, his balls shaven. I’ll soon stiffen you up, I thought, as I squeezed my legs together.
“Tell me what you’ve done,” I said, pretending to inspect my nails. I kept my voice harsh and controlled, but inside I was going mad, my pussy pumping so hard I was sure it must be visible to Howie in my catsuit, a garment that gave a girl nowhere to hide. “Tell
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