MFF Ch. 02 - Preparing for Evening

As soon as that word, "Inspection" was spoken, even before my conscious mind had fully heard and understood it, I was already moving. I brought my head off the floor, pushed down with my hands as I drew my legs up under me, and stood in one smooth, swift, and, dare I say, graceful, motion. Settling into a comfortable stance with my legs just more then shoulder width apart, and my hands clasped behind my neck, I stared straight ahead and waited for Her.

She had moved around behind me, while She had been talking, and She continued to circle slowly around me now, as I stood there. I could feel Her eyes scrutinizing me, checking me for flaws. As She passed under my raised elbow, She ran a hand lightly under my arm, to insure that there was no trace of missed stubble and I barely resisted the urge to flinch at Her light, ticklish touch. She knew that I had never bothered to shave my underarms before meeting Her, and I knew that She was trying to help me by insuring that I did the relatively new task perfectly; as I should.

She let Her hand linger, then softly pulled it around with Her as she continued to move around in front of me. Running it up the slight rise of my chest to my left breast, then grabbing the firmly erect nipple between Her thumb and forefinger and squeezing it hard, tugging lightly on it at the same time and eliciting a soft moan from the back of my throat that I could no more contain then I could stop myself from breathing.

"You like, don't you My little slut?" She fairly purred, and it amazed me again how Her voice could be so soft, and still carry the hard, steely, edge that let every one around Her know that She was always in complete control of everything, and everyone, that was in Her presence.

Stifling another moan, I manage to utter a breathless "Yes, Mistress," as She let go Her grip on my nipple and ran Her hand to my other breast. I hoped She would repeat the process there, but instead She let Her hand drop as She stepped back to get a wider view; which also gave me the chance to view Her as well.

While SHE was the perfect figure of a woman, including her height at just a shade over 5'8", my own un-womanly height meant that She came just to my chin. When She was in close to me, when I am looking strait ahead, as required by the inspection pose, I was unable to get more then a faint impression of Her out of my peripheral vision. Even when She stood back, to look at me, I could only get a general impression of Her wondrous beauty, and how She looked tonight.

Her hair was still damp, I could see, and showed it's naturally curly nature, despite being combed out. She was dressed in Her bath robe, having obviously just finishing Her own long, stress relieving, soak in the tub of the master bath off of Her room, in the main part of the house. Her soft skin glowed slightly as an after effect of Her stay in the warm water, and I could see Her head moving slightly as she continued to inspect me with Her eyes. Her brilliantly bright eyes, that could shoot right through my soul when She looked into my own, as She was now. I could get lost in those eyes forever, Her wonderful eyes that, like the rest of Her, could radiate infinite warmth and love, or an icy, commanding, cold... like they were now.

Why where Her eye's turning so cold all of a sudden? Oh Crap! What was I doing looking into Her eyes at all?! Why wasn't I looking straight forward like I should be?

My head snapped back up the few degrees I had inadvertently allowed it to drop as I was reveling in Her pure beauty; but it was far, far to late...

The change in Her voice was dramatic. No longer was it soft but with the assurance of control, now it was all command.

"Head on the bench." She snapped, followed by a louder, "Now bitch!" when I failed to move as quickly as I should have.

Bench was a generic term for Her, meant indicate whatever medium-low surface was available; a chair, couch, stool, or even counter would suffice. In this case, however, it was the same bench that I had been cleaning when she'd walked in. It was taller then a normal chair or couch, but shorter then a table -- a carefully calculated height, She had informed me when I first moved into my room, so that the person laying on (or over) it would be at the perfect level for Her to use Her strap-on dildo if She chose. This was an honor She had not yet bestowed on me, our love making being limited to oral or manual manipulations, but was one I both looked forward to and feared after She had told me that such an event would mark the end of my training. I longed to be worthy of that honor, but I never wanted my training to end.

The bench also had... other uses (it had several strong straps that could hold a person down while Mistress played), but the current one was as a platform for my punishment. Trembling, more from the realization that I had failed Her, then from the very real fear of what form Her punishment would take, I assumed the position She had dictated. Standing about a foot-and-a-half from the side of the bench, with my legs spread wide, wider then normal because of the low surface, I leaned over and laid my cheek on the cool leather surface.

Being that close, and having to lean over that far, led to the effect that She desired, the highest point of my body, the curve of my buttocks, was also the furthest point from the bench and thus the most exposed. It was a type of exposure that She knew full well how to take advantage of.

Using one of the many implements -- which one I couldn't begin to guess -- that are stored around my room for just this type of lapse, She lands a resounding smack, right on target, almost before my head even touches the bench.

The first blow -- "swat" being far to kind of a word to describe the spankings She was administering -- is followed by several more that rain down in rapid succession and quickly bring tears to my eyes, and a warm glow to my backside. The pain of the blows is nothing, however, compared to the knife thrust to my soul that is Her voice, resonant with sorrow and disappointment, as She addresses me.

"You know what you did wrong?" She asks, with that edge of steel in Her voice.

"Yes, Ma'am," I manage to force out through quivering lips.

"Well?"

"I forgot my place," I sob, "and released myself from the position You had placed me in."

Some of the icy steel leaves Her voice, but not all, as She asks, "What else?" Leaving me at a total loss and stammering for a response.

"What else!?" She demands, landing another firm, if somewhat softer, blow on an ass that already felt on fire from Her previous attentions.

"Forgive me Mistress, " is all I can say. "I don't know what else I have done."

The next blow is noticeably softer, as is Her voice, "You were staring, My pet, and a lady should NEVER," She accents this word with another swat, "never stare. Do you understand?"

"Yes Mistress, " I stammer as fresh tears flood my eyes, tears not of pain but of joy that She should care so much for me, that she would strive so hard to help me become the type of lady that I wanted to be.

Her hand runs over the burning marks She's made, bringing a cooling, soothing sensation to them even as Her voice brings it's cooling presence to my troubled mind. "Booth were small lapses, and I am sure that you will not repeat either anytime soon." A slight pause before She continues, " So lets get back to our inspection, shall we?"

I start to rise, then, to allow Her to resume, but She tells me to stay, and I feel Her hand slid down one leg then back up, feeling the silky smoothness of it's shaved and lotioned length. Then repeating the process on the other leg.

When Her hand is again resting lightly on the still warm and stinging swell of my rear, I feel Her shift slightly. Though She says nothing, there is a sudden, if subtle change in the very feel of the room, and an electric thrill shoots through me even before She again moves that hand. Gliding it down to the small of my back before redirecting it and sliding it back, up over my tail bone and then down the other side of my raised posterior. Every so softly, ever so slowly -- each fraction of an inch feeling as if it takes Her an hour to cover, and every minute of that hour increasing the suddenly overwhelming lust and need that I can feel building inside of me. As Her hand continues to make it's languid way along, following the natural crevice that is so exposed from my spread legs and bent position, I revel in new feelings, new sensations, new pleasures that I would have never expected to be aroused from this portion of my body. Her hand continues, lingering slightly on my suddenly, and unexpectedly puckering rectum, down farther still until it starts to curve under and forward, brushing lightly on my smooth, shaved, sexuality, and lingering there for a hesitant second before being withdrawn. Retracing the same route it had just traveled, and instigating new, even stronger responses and needs from my body.

As Her hand traces up over my hip and around to run over my quivering stomach, moving slowly up toward my breast, I feel another jolt, all the more intensive for being unexpected, shoot through me as Her bare flesh presses against mine. She has clearly undone Her robe, and I tingle wherever Her skin touches me, as She stands tight up behind me. I feel Her firm abs against my freshly warmed buns, then Her bosom pressing against my lower back as She leans over me, wrapping both arms around me, and running Her hands up to squeeze and pull on my tender nipples as She kisses my back

It must be my imagination, but I swear I can hear a lust that matches, even overwhelms, my own in Her husky whisper, "Oh baby, the things I want to do to you right now," but no, it must have only been in my head. The firm voice, full of command and control, is definitely there when she continues, "But now, I need to help you get ready for tonight."

She withdraws then, and my skin feels cold, empty, even lonely, where She had been pressed against me. Her hands slide back up over my stomach, around my hips, and then rest lightly on my rump for a brief second before rising and falling in a quick, firm, double slap that reminds me only to well of my recent transgressions; and their consequences. "Hmmm, " She purrs again, "We've put such a lovely rose blush on these cheeks, it is time to work on the others."

She bids me to rise then, and follow Her over to the make-up table, adding a casual command to "bring the bags" with me when I come.

I hadn't even seen the bags until She mentions them, but now I can only wonder if Christmas has come early as I spy the four shopping bags. I recognize one label and blush deeply. It is the type of store that I could never (NEVER) have shopped at myself. I think I would have died of embarrassment just walking through the front door. I had walked past several times before, of course, eyeing all the pretty lace and smooth satin, and wishing that I had the courage to try some of them on. I never had, however, but now She had gone there for me? I hope it is for me, anyway, as I remember that She has not yet dressed Herself and might be planing to wear the garments.

That realization hits me like a brick; of course the clothes are for Her, what had I been daring to dream. Stores like that would never carry clothes for a woman built like I was. A quick flash of depression started to set in as I grabbed the bags and prepared to follow Her across my room to the dressing area and it's well stocked make-up table. Watching Her, as She walked in front of me, however, my depression was very short lived. The store might not have anything for me, but whatever it was She had purchased, it was certain to look great on Her and make Her happy. Which was the goal, after all.

After laying the bags on the bed, I stood and waited for Her next order. I thought about moving to the make-up table, since She had mentioned it, but decided to wait until She instructed me to sit, or at least started to move in that direction Herself.

Rather then doing that, however, She immediately begins to sort through the bags and pull several boxes out of them. After spreading the boxes out across the bed, She soon finds the one she is looking for; one that I notice came out of the same bag I had spied.

"This is going to be a special night for you, " She says as she pulls the lid off the box. "My friends are coming over for supper, and you will have the privilege of serving us. As much as I might enjoy keeping you in your present, wonderfully naked, state, it wouldn't be proper attire for a maid. Even among friends such as these you need to be partially covered to serve the meal, and you can start with these."

The shiny piece of cloth that she pulls out of the box appeared to be impossibly small for an actual garment, but She strings it between Her hands and holds it out to reveal a dainty T-bar.

She motions for me to take it, and with trembling hands I do. She follows the panties with a wonderful, lacy garter belt, and a matching set of hose before motioning for me to start dressing while She again starts to rummage through the rest of the parcels.

I pull the T-bar on first, carefully stepping into each side, then drawing them up past my calf, over my thighs, sliding the band up over my still stinging rump, then finally settling the strap over my hips. I love the mildly erotic thrill I feel as the thong slides into my sensitive crevice and rides it's way up until it's snugly lodged. A careful bit of arraigning, and the front of the garment forms a smooth, symmetrical, triangle between my hips.

The sensual feel of that one garment is laced with far more power then something, particularly something that small, should be able to contain. I have gone from being completely naked, to wearing clothing, but rather then feeling less sexual, it feels more. I am suddenly alive with femininity and I know, in my mind at least, that I am far more of an erotic creature then I was just seconds ago. That one, small garment has turned me from being just me, to being my Mistress' woman. If nothing else of note happens tonight, this is more then reward enough for anything I may have done to please Her. I am Hers, HER woman.

The Garter is next, and I am careful to arrange it so that it complements the T-bar, using both garments to highlight each other, the way She has shown me when I have been allowed to dress Her. I have to stop for a second as another wave of joy washes over me. This is my first garter, as often as I had dreamed of wearing one, loving the way they looked on other woman, I had never done so myself. And now She has gotten me one of my very own, what had I ever done to deserve such a wonderful Mistress?

Drawing each stocking up in turn, I quietly thanked every power I could think of for the bounty that my life had become. As the hose, a shockingly erotic, small fishnet, pattern, slide over my legs, I am careful to watch for snags and to keep the seem aligned in the back. Being just as careful, if not more so, I attach the hose to the belt and am just about to turn back toward Her when She tells me to freeze.

"Don't move," She says with that slight purring tone She has when happy; or aroused. I can feel Her eyes devouring me, taking in the effect of the new clothes on my body. "Oh yes, very nice."

I feel Her hand run lightly up the seam of one stocking, feel Her make a slight adjustment in one of the back snaps of the garter, then run Her hand up under the strap, and allow it to rest on the still red curve of my ass. Then, as if that reminder of Her earlier handiwork triggers a need, She quickly pulls her hand out from under the strap, draws it back, and delivers a sharp, firm slap. The suddenness, the unexpectedness, of Her strike elicits a sharp indrawn breath from me.

Her husky, "I suppose I really should put some blush on your cheeks, shouldn't I?" is followed by Her musical laughter as I automatically shift my position slightly to thrust my ass back and make it an easier target for Her expected blow. It's not that I enjoy Her spankings themselves (though part of me does), but I know how much pleasure She receives out of delivering non-punishment swats, and I long to please Her whenever I can, especially after the magical night She has already made this into.

"No. No my pet, that isn't what I meant," She laughs, "Though the thought is appealing," Another firm, but playful swat follows Her words, "but I was talking about the other ones"

With gentle pressure, She grabs my hips and guides me slowly backwards. With a rapidly beating heart, I allow myself to be lead back until my legs bump into the stool in front of the make-up counter. Applying cosmetics is a skill that I was never any good at before coming here to live with Mistress, and is something that I still don't do all that well. It is something that I normally do for myself, however. Mistress having pointed out that the only way I would ever improve is to do it. She would examine my work when I had finished, and tell me if I had done anything wrong; then, if I had, I would remove it all and start over until I had it correct. On rare, joyous days when I had pleased Her in some way (such as doing all my chores correctly), or if She was just in a giving mood, She would sit with me as I applied the various layers and would give me advice all through the process. This, this was sounding like something else, something more.

Once before She had actually done my make-up for me, and Her omission of an order for me to go do my make-up myself, was making me think that this might be a glorious repeat of that wondrous event.

As She sets me on the stool, with my back to the mirror, and reaches for the base powder and a soft brush, time itself loses meaning. Each second is an eternity of joy. Mistress' time is a truly rare, and therefore truly valuable, commodity, and I revel in the fact that She is choosing to lavish so much of it on Her unworthy servant. At the same time, the joy, no the greed, in my soul is such that the time to appears to fly past as she carefully, and quite thoroughly, remakes my face. A split second of eternity passes -- in reality, it might have been 5 minutes, it might have been 5 hours, I truly don't know, but it brings me close to tears (and earns me a mild warning about ruining Her work by making my mascara run) several times.

All to soon, however, She steps back and nods Her approval, leaving a dull void that is almost filled with the joy of remembrance; almost, but not quite. The rest of the void, a part that I know will grow and grow in the time to come, fills with a deep seated need to insure that I never let Her down, that I do all I can earn all that She has already given me, and maybe (even though I know I can never be worthy), maybe She will chose to do this again sometime.

"Just a few more touches," She says, moving back toward the bed and commanding me to rise and follow Her, adding "and don't even think of looking in that mirror!"

That I had only just started to wonder what I might look like with the make-up on, and had not even formed the notion of turning to look into the mirror yet when I heard Her command not to do so, showed the depth of Her understanding of me. Now I can only wonder what my appearance might be; Mistress is very adept with Her own makeup when She chooses to wear it, and I don't doubt Her skill, but I am such a poor canvas for Her talent. What the result of that match might be, I can only guess as I hurry to follow Her the few steps back to the bed and it's stock of recently purchased treasures.

She instructs me to sit on the small stool beside the foot of the bed, and face away from Her with my arms raised up over my head. Then I feel Her pull something down over my arms and head, carefully avoiding smearing Her hard work with my makeup, and down around my torso. As the garment settles in front of me, and I start to look down to see what it is when Her sharp "Eyes forward!" makes me forget the notion and stare studiously at the far wall instead.

The corset, for surely that is what it must be, settles on my hips and I realize that it is slightly taller then the previous "trainers" that She has put me in. Rather then running from the hips to the rib cage, this one appears to run all the way up to my breasts, and I struggle mightily with myself to resist the urge to look down and try to see what it looks like.

I feel Her drawing the laces in some, just enough to hold the stiff fabric in place, then She tells me to keep my eyes up, and go lean against the wall, before She begins the laborious process of cinching it up as snug as She can.

"It would have been better," She says, "to have broken this in before the party, but it only just arrived today and it will have to do."

The rigid leather and cloth device assumes the familiar tightness of the previous corsets I have worn, and then passes beyond that to a constriction that makes me border on panic for several long seconds as I feel the need to draw a breath that will not come. It is only after I realize that I have not, yet, passed out, that the panic begins to subside, but still I wonder if I will ever be able to catch a decent breath. The training corsets, which had cinched my waist, and maybe a bit of my diaphragm, had seemed uncomfortable, but compared to this, they were like wearing a camisole. Not only did it pull in my waist, maybe tighter then before, even, it also encased my ribs, squeezing tightly against my chest, and up under my breasts, preventing me from bending, or even expanding my chest to draw in air.

Despite that mild discomfort, however, I thrill in the feel of the thing. It sets firmly on my hip line, and I am sure that it covers the band of the T-bar and meets the top of the garter belt that I am wearing. The top appears to curve up from just below my shoulder blades in the back, around my chest, and form small half cups against the bottom of my breasts pushing them up as the corset is tightened. As She nears the top of the lacing, Mistress reaches around and adjusts each of my little globes to Her satisfaction, then finishes drawing it tight around me. I swear that I can feel Her knee in my back pushing me forward as She pulls back on the tough strings, but i'm not entirely sure, as i'm feeling light headed from the lack of air.

"I should have done that before taking My bath," She says with a slightly breathless voice, and it is evident that She is feeling the effects of Her exertions as well. "But at least that's done now. Still a few more things to do though, so come back to the stool and let's finish."

She leads me backwards the several steps to the stool, and despite my deep felt belief to the contrary, I am actually able to not only still draw breath (shallowly), but also to bend enough at the waist to sit. I hear Her moving around behind me, and wonder what I should expect next, when She appears in front of me again, bearing the stool from the makeup area, along with a small, colorful box.

She flips open the lid, and sets the box on the bed, then pulls Her chair up closer to mine, and takes a seat before raising one leg up to the bed and resting it there with a slight bend the knee. She speaks only one word, "Hands", and I quickly present them to Her.

She takes each in turn, and looks closely at my nails. This makes me slightly nervous, I had never really tried to keep them manicured before, preferring to wear them quite short and unpainted so they wouldn't interfere with work, but She just smiles and nods before saying, "They are coming along, and you are doing a fair job of maintaining them and keeping them painted." She is reaching into the small box as she says this, and pulls out a bottle that looks like nothing more then clear polish. "But they are still rather short," She adds as She carefully brushes some of the liquid onto the nail before putting the cap back on and setting it aside. She lays my hand on Her bare leg as She does so, and a thrill runs through me at the electric sensation of skin on skin.

"So for tonight," She continues, as She reaches into the box again, and carefully pulls out something colorful, and slightly curved, "I think it best that you wear these." She places the fake nail on the finger She had just painted and presses it tightly for a long second before releasing Her grip and looking critically at the nail.

The nail isn't exactly long, maybe three-quarters of an inch from base to tip, it extends a good quarter inch past the end of my pinkie, but is still substantially longer then my own nails are (or have ever been). It has a beautiful, oriental looking, pattern on it, and the color matches that of the T-bar i'm wearing.

She lays my hand on Her leg again, and reaches for the bottle of glue as She tells me that I will have to learn to put these on myself soon, but for tonight She wants to show me off, so She will put them on to ensure they are done correctly. I try to pay full attention to Her as She shows me how to apply the glue and then the nail, but by the fourth finger arousal is starting to compete against my concentration. The feel of Her naked leg as my hand rests on it starts the distraction, but it is the sudden realization that Her robe had come apart when She sat down that really does the trick. My eyes dart down even before my brain has fully processed the facts, and they land on the neatly trimmed tuft of hair that defines Her womanhood.

Seated on the stool as She is, with one leg raised up on the bed to use as a makeshift table for doing my nails, the soft folds of her outer labia are clearly visible, and invitingly moist. It occurs to me then that Mistress clearly enjoys Her time with me; is getting aroused by fixing me up. Maybe it is just that She is thinking of what She will do with me later, I don't know, but whatever it is, I am somehow involved, and the thought makes me misty.

Tears are in my eyes, but have not spilt, as I look back up. Mistress finishes with the nails of one hand, and looks up to command that I give Her the other when She sees them, and the look of care in Her eyes almost pushes me over the edge to a full out bawl.

"What is it pet?" She asks, only a slight hint of confusion in Her firm, commanding voice. "Is something wrong?"

I take a deep breath (or as deep as the new corset will allow, anyway) to steady myself before I can reply, "No Mistress. Nothing is wrong. It is just that, I love You so much!"

Despite my efforts, a few tears still start to leak out. She sets my hand back on my own lap, and rises. Then straddles my legs on and stands close before me, pulling my head in to Her breast and stroking the back of my hair as She tells me She loves me too.

I fear for a second that the dam will burst, that I will cry uncontrollably, then I remember Her carefully applied makeup. The fear of ruining something She had spent that much time on gives me the control I need to blink back the flood.

When She senses that i've passed the crises, She pulls away, tilts my head up toward Her, and gently kisses my eyelids. Her lips move down to mine, and in an instant, Love is overtaken by lust. I need Her, I feel that I must kiss Her now, but even before my lips can part to make way for Her tongue to conduct the warm probe that I hope it makes, She has pulled Her lips back, and I realize that my lust will have to wait. That is fine, however, as I still feel the warmth of love given, and love returned.

The nails of the second hand go on quickly, and I pay closer attention to how they are applied this time. Then Mistress again turns Her attention to the dwindling supply of boxes She still has arrayed on my bed. She selects one, obviously a shoe box by it's dimensions, and turns back to me. As She pulls the shoes out and arranges them for me to step into on the floor, She tells me that they are higher then I am used to, but that She trusts I will be able to manage in them.

The shoes are, indeed, taller then I would have expected. Even though I tower over Her already, and Mistress prefers me in flats (or shoeless), She has given me a couple of pairs of low rise pumps in the past, claiming that She likes the way they make my calves look. Those are nothing at all like what She sets on the floor in front of me now, however. The heels on these are easily four inches, twice what i've worn in the past, but they are a lovely design, and were obviously carefully chosen as they are snug, but don't require too much effort to put on my feet.

I start to rise, wanting to try my balance at this precarious new height, but She restrains me with a raised hand, then disappears behind me again to find yet another package from the group on the bed.

After I hear Her quick rummage through the remaining packages, I feel an air light touch on my spine... a tickling sensation that instantly raises goose bumps all over my body, and I have a brief second to wonder what it could be before what feels like a piece of cloth is pressed against the base of my skull and then pulled up over the top of my head, where it is held in place by one of Mistress' hands as She moves quickly around one side of me, then throws Her leg over both of mine and straddles me again. She actually sits on my legs this time, and I can feel Her warm skin through the fishnet of the stockings.

She has several bobby pins tucked into Her mouth, and I vaguely wonder what they are for. Most of my attention, however, is taken up by the faint, but still powerful, slightly musky scent I can smell rising up from her spread legs. I feel Her tugging on whatever She has placed on my head, and I imagine it is some strange hat, but don't think much about it. My thoughts were suddenly, almost overpoweringly, on turning to the bed, and pushing Her on it so that I could taste the sweet nectar that I was smelling. There is no chance that I will actually do it (i could NEVER force myself on Her, I loved Her to much), but I am overwhelmed by my desire, and wish fervently that She would command me to go down on Her; to run my tongue along Her velvety folds, to plunge it into Her warm tunnel, to draw Her rigid, swollen clit in between my lips and suckle on it like a starving babe for long, languid minutes, while I hear Her breath steadily increase to quick little gasps, slowing my pace slightly to prolong Her ecstasy until I can finally push Her over the top and give Her a long, hard, shuddering release.

With great effort, I force my mind back to reality. Back to concentrating on what She is doing; but I know with certainty, that the need to taste Her, to bring Her to the pinnacle of pleasure, will stay with me all night. A constant torment of desire that is likely to go unfulfilled this day; maybe for many days to come.

Mistress has used all Her pins, I notice; trying desperately to find something, anything, to think of, other then having Her wrap Her sexy legs around my head.

I can see a strange, fuzzy distortion of color at the edges of my peripheral vision, and the feather light touch continues along my spine and shoulders, from the top of the corset up. The source of both is a mystery until She reaches Her hands over my shoulders and pulls forward two bundles of shimmering red hair and arranges them so they spill over my shoulders and exposed breasts.

A wig?! Now that I think of it, I can feel the extra weight of it pulling on my own hair and scalp. I reach up to touch it, then stop to look at Mistress for approval. She nods, as She stands and steps back from me, giving me a stronger scent of Her, and making my lust and desire swell up again. I push the urges down by focusing on the marvelous wig She has put on me. The hair is a vibrant red, well highlighted, and falling in tight, ringlet curls down almost to the top of my butt in the back, and easily passing my breasts in front, but pulled back off my face. It was the type of hair that I could only dream of having naturally.

"Now, about your duties tonight," Mistress begins,...