Posted 11 February 2007
"Feel the leather, Philip. Feel how smooth it is."
These were the very words I spoke to one of my longest-standing clients at a meeting with him sometime in November of last year. He was sitting in a chair and I was standing in front of him with one foot raised so that the sole of my black knee length boot was positioned between his thighs, just a few tantalising inches from his unmistakably erect cock. He had just finished buckling a boot strap on to my foot and his hands were involuntarily shaking with a mixture of nervousness and arousal. I'd delivered the above line totally levelly, completely in control, but I'm sure if Philip had looked up into my eyes at that moment he would have seen the undisguised lust there. When I'd lifted my leg up, the black elastic straps of the stimulator that had been bound to my pussy since I left home that morning tightened to their absolute limit, and my cunt was on fire with excitement. I was wearing some see-through black silk panties that day and I could feel their dampness as my arousal approached its peak.
All my meetings with Philip over the past few years have taken place at a location south of London. It's a beautiful place, set in parkland beside a large lake and nearby golf course, and as far as I'm concerned the two or three visits a year I make there can't really be classed as work. I'm not going to give any further details about this because my client lives abroad and he is neither resident nor domiciled in the UK for tax purposes. As such he is not allowed to maintain any permanent base in this country. All you need to know is that the place where he holds his business meetings on the half dozen occasions each year when he flies into the UK is very private, and very impressive.
Philip is in his early fifties. He's a self-made individual who has proved his natural entrepreneurship by building up three highly successful, totally disparate businesses from scratch. In my experience such men or women are extremely rare. I meet many company owners who happened to be in the right place at the right time and made every good use of such an opportunity, and I also have a number of clients who have taken over the reins of a family-owned business. But to come across someone who has seen a gap in the market in a business he or she knows nothing about and then subsequently moved in to capture that market, is very unusual. For them to do so on three separate occasions is even more unusual. As such I have always had the highest respect for Philip and it's fair to say that I'm attracted to him for this reason too, much in the same way as I'm attracted to Martin.
These men are unquestionably a breed apart when it comes to the business world. They may share the same weaknesses and insecurities as the rest of us in a more domestic sphere, but put them under the sort of pressure in a commercial environment that would crush any normal individual and they are truly unflappable. It's a pity that those who decry the wealth of company owners such as Philip aren't able to see these qualities at close hand. When I compare him to the sort of indecisive, ineffective managers I now deal with in the UK's public sector (which I must confess is my biggest gravy train these days) I can't help but conclude that he deserves every last penny that sits in his bank account.
He can be difficult too - unsettling unless you're prepared for his sudden admonishments. He pays top rates for the advice he gets and he expects the very best in return. He doesn't mind if I make a mistake that was unavoidable or if circumstances change such that any advice I've given has become redundant, but he does take me to task if he thinks I've been lazy or sloppy. Fortunately I learned my lesson on this when I screwed up on an issue a few years ago. He could have so easily dumped me at that point, but instead he tersely chewed my head off and that was it - a moment later it was as though it had never happened, except that I was left with a horribly uncomfortable squirming feeling, together with an inner determination that it would never happen again.
It's no longer any surprise to me to find that men like Philip have submissive sexual traits lying beneath the surface of their outwardly assertive demeanour, especially ever since Robert let down his defences and revealed his latent desires to me. Nevertheless I'll never forget the day when I discovered that Philip had a fetish for boots, and it was my handling of that moment of discovery that arguably first told me that I had within me a great gift for dealing with such men.
At our initial couple of meetings I hadn't gone overboard with the sexy clothing. The first time I went to see him I had no idea what to expect or who might be there and so I was every inch the demure professional businesswoman. I've said before that at my second meeting I like to turn up the heat a little, and because I was going to be seeing Philip in a very private setting you might expect that I would stretch things even further. In fact though I held back with the sexy dressing, reasoning that any flagrant display in such an isolated environment could lead to a very uncomfortable situation. Remember that at this time I was a faithful wife, and if Philip took my high heels, stockings and suspenders as some sort of come-on rather than the prick tease it was designed to be, I wouldn't have the protection of a busy central office to stay his advances. I'm not for a moment suggesting that I was worried that I could be accosted or anything, just that it could be a disaster if I had to rebuff and embarrass a new business client before we had hardly started.
Even on the third occasion I visited him I was dressed conservatively, although this time I did wear a pair of knee length black leather boots. I won't pretend that there wasn't some sort of ulterior motive in wearing these and I also can't deny that they weren't slightly unusual (I find impossible to wear boots that aren't fairly tight and don't have very high stiletto heels). However, when combined with the rest of my business suit I don't think they looked too untoward, certainly not by my normal standards.
Right from when I first sat down opposite Philip I began to register his glances towards my feet, but this was no more than I was expecting. That day my boots were the focal point of my outfit and I would have expected almost any man to pay some interest in them. However as our meeting progressed it became clear that my client was becoming more and more distracted by my shiny footwear, so much so that at times he would stop mid-sentence and apparently lose his train of thought while his eyes flicked involuntarily downwards and then back to my face. Apart from with Martin, I had never been in a situation before where a man's fetish had been displayed so openly and at such close range, and I remember being fascinated by his actions and loss of balance. Most interestingly of all, I was observing his body language as if it were happening in slow motion. I became acutely aware of every twitch of the muscles on his face, of his sporadic hand gestures, of his change in body position and posture. However it was his eyes that mesmerised me most - his eyes told me everything. It was as though by studying his eye movements I could see right into his soul, and ever since that day I have become a great student of the eyes. Such understanding gives me an enormous advantage over anyone I converse with, especially as I have learned to read the most giveaway signals while I am ostensibly not even looking at the individual concerned.
Philip was noticeably becoming embarrassed by his faltering delivery, and although he must have been aware that I could see his distraction, he didn't seem to be able to do anything about it. It's here that I believe I played things so impressively - impressive not so much because of what I did, but because I acted completely reflexively. I didn't analyse the situation, compute it, and decide on a course of action; I simply acted - acted instinctively as though I was somehow born to understand how a man like this thinks and how he should be handled.
I was holding some papers at the time and I deliberately disengaged eye contact with Philip and started to sort through them, as if they were far more important than anything else on my mind. Then I spoke, and it was almost an aside, apparently no more meaningful than if I'd commented on the weather outside.
"You're fascinated by my boots, Philip. They're really sexy, aren't they? It's amazing how men like to look at them."
I continued to shuffle through the papers as if I were searching for something, and it was several seconds before I looked up again to face my client, giving him a mischievous smile. He hadn't said anything and there was now some redness in his cheeks, but after a moment of seeming indecision his body suddenly relaxed, as if all the tension had suddenly been unburdened from him.
"You got me," he laughed. "Guilty as charged."
I laughed then too, and it was a very special moment for me. Reading this you're perhaps wondering what on earth I'm going on about here, but try to understand that if I had made my comment about the boots while looking directly at Philip then this whole thing would have played out completely differently. It's perhaps something that only a woman can understand, but eye contact at that moment would have made Philip the target of a seductress, whereas by couching my remark as a passing observation made indirectly I hadn't in any way pressured or threatened my client. Just as instinctively, I knew that now was the time to place him further into his comfort zone, by making him my confidant - openly sharing my harmless 'secret' with him, and thus absolving him of any feelings of guilt over his preoccupation.
"I'm terrible I'm afraid. My husband's got a thing about boots and he started encouraging me to wear quite exotic styles - you know, thigh length with really high heels and that sort of thing. I was a bit timid at first, but eventually... well, you know, in the end I fell in love with wearing sexy boots. I'm sorry if I distracted you."
However forward and blatant this may seem, you have to try to get inside Philip's head here and imagine what effect those words of mine had on him. Here he is, a middle aged man with a weakness for boots facing a very hot looker in her late twenties who has just confided that she loves - not likes, or merely enjoys, but loves - wearing spike heeled boots, and by the sound of it, kinky ones at that.
Wow, I can't believe she just said that! She's actually apologetic about it! Ye gods, all those nights I've... no, try not to think about it... no, no... oh, wow, a girl like her walking all over me wearing boots like that... for Christ's sake Philip, pull yourself together!... you're off the hook here... but I can't let it slip by... she's not making a play, so what's the harm?... I've got to give her a hint...
"Not at all. It's me who should be apologising. I must say though, your husband's a lucky man... a very lucky man."
"Oh, thank you, that's very nice of you. Actually, I think he feels I've gone too far with it all these days. I wear them while I'm at work, and he doesn't always think that it's... you know, appropriate - particularly the ones with very high heels that come above the knee. I just love to wear them in public though, especially the more risqué ones."
Holy shit, is she for real? Imagine her, walking down the street in boots and a short skirt... no, put it out of your head... sod it, I can't - it sounds like she really gets off on it!... Do you think she actually gets wet when she puts them on? Likes to fuck herself with them? Shit, she's waiting for you to say something... quickly, think...
"Well, you'll have to excuse my forwardness here Maria, but if I had a young wife as attractive as you who went out the house like that I'd probably be bothered by it too. But don't let me stop you... I'm certainly not complaining!"
We both laughed then, and again I made sure that there were no lingering looks or movements on my part that could possibly be construed as a come on. I'd now got exactly what I wanted and it was time to leave the subject, making out it was just a playful interruption to our otherwise serious business discussion. Any further exchanges and I would risk making Philip garrulous, inevitably leading him to say something that he would later regret.
"Okay, but I'll make my excuses now for any future meetings where I turn up in outrageous footwear. Don't read anything into it, it's just me, I'm afraid... now... er, where was that summary I had of Inland Revenue current practice?... oh yes, here we are..."
Keep in mind that at this time I was never trying to engineer a situation that would eventually lead to some sort of sexual relationship. It was a pure prick tease play, and I would get highly turned on by the knowledge that I was mind-fucking men by dangling such temptation in front of them. When I left Philip's country home that day I knew, just knew, that he was going to wank himself sore thinking about what he had seen and what had been said. I was ecstatic over the whole incident, not only because I knew that the fun with my boot-loving client had only just begun, but also with the realisation that I had finessed the whole situation with such skill. I realised then that a man could be seduced and captured by just a few well-chosen words - the right words, the perfect words. I have no idea how I'm able to almost unthinkingly know how to control such exchanges, but I seem to go into some sort of zone, one where I make intuitive responses and actions based on how a man is reacting to me. I'm not saying I don't think rapidly at the same time, but often the thoughts seem to lag my physical movements and dialogue. It feels completely spontaneous, despite logic telling me that this cannot be so.
I didn't wear boots the next time I saw Philip. The weather wasn't really right for it, but even if it had been I think such a move so early would have been far too obvious. I didn't want my client to feel that I attached any great importance to the revelation I'd made at our previous meeting, and of course there was some satisfaction in knowing how disappointed he would be when I turned up in shoes instead. He didn't make any comment and to be fair I didn't really register any reaction from him, but I'm pretty sure that as the time of my visit approached his thoughts would have been turning to images of me in some sexy boots (and the poor guy had been waiting four months for that moment). It must have been a real let down for him.
At the next meeting however I really went for it. I wore a pair of shiny black leather over-the-knee boots (though not fully thigh length) with black stockings and a fairly short skirt, and I made sure that the various poses I struck as I typed notes into my laptop gave Philip a boot-lover's feast. I had very prominent suspenders on that day - I wanted to leave him in no doubt whatsoever that when Maria dressed up in her high boots she liked to wear exciting underwear too.
Philip would have seen my black lacy stocking tops on several occasions, and possibly even a glimpse of a silver suspender clasp, but at no time did I give any indication that I was interested in how he was reacting to what I was showing him. In fact for much of that meeting I made sure that I appeared to be concentrating on my notes and prepared work. He was allowed to ogle me in his own private way, with very little eye contact from me interrupting his enjoyment. Only once did we mutually acknowledge that I was wearing the sort of boots that I'd previously hinted at, and that was at the very start of the meeting when I first sat down:
"I see you weren't kidding about the boots you like wear," he said, doing his best to sound jocular about it. "You must have an amazing amount of self-confidence."
I was starting up my laptop as he said this, and when I replied I was still looking at the screen.
"Well, I did warn you. Believe me though, today is pretty subtle."
I made no further comment and I can only imagine what must have gone through his mind when I said those few words. The thing is though, Philip is nobody's fool. However much her mannerisms and attention may argue to the contrary, a woman doesn't arrive at a business meeting dressed in stockings, suspenders and hot boots if she's not got some sort of agenda behind it. She simply doesn't, and Philip must have known this. However I suspect that he very quickly perceived what was going on here. He would have understood that I was indulging in blatant exhibitionism for my own gratification whilst simultaneously allowing him to enjoy his fetish in a risk-free way. And I suppose when you look at it in this light you can argue that we were enjoying a sort of remote and unspoken sex with each other. When I left his house I knew Philip would be masturbating for several days, even months, as he thought about me. In turn, he may well have guessed that I was also pleasuring myself as a result of the kick I'd got from parading myself in front of him.
Our twice-yearly meetings soon became little more than purely voyeuristic sessions as far as I was concerned. Business was conducted highly professionally, but it had very little meaning. The real work I did with Philip took place via email, phone and fax, and my visits were nothing other than an excuse for me to dress up enticingly and display myself for my client's benefit. I absolutely loved doing this, as I really was acting as a softcore prostitute in all but name, and Martin also got a tremendous kick from seeing me dress up for these meetings. He knew that I had sat in front of Philip several times wearing a skirt that was too short for a woman to maintain full modesty, and on one occasion I had even refastened a suspender that had come undone while I was talking to my client (believe it or not, this was a genuine mishap). That picture of me in the "Maria The Loyal Wife" post tightening a garter strap while I'm wearing thigh boots was taken on a day when I was visiting Philip and the pose is very similar to what my client saw (although it was the top suspender that came undone and consequently I didn't show quite as much flesh when I fixed it).
In all that time very little discussion had ever taken place between the two of us about my boots. Philip eventually gave up delivering any compliments or comments when I arrived, especially when I started wearing full blown lace-front fetish boots. In fact there's only one occasion I can recall where we dwelt on the subject more than momentarily, and that was when I made him aware one day that I would be wearing the boots in a public place and not just at our meeting.
"Oh, by the way Philip, that pub on the main road as you go into the city centre, the one opposite the old railway station... they do food there don't they? Is it any good?"
"The White Horse? Yeah, they do food. It's not bad, but I tend not to go there at lunchtimes. It's a sort of local for all the solicitors and accountants from Fox Street. God knows who they end up billing after they've been there for one of their 'extended' lunches, especially on Fridays. Don't know how they ever get any work done."
"Oh, okay, I'll give it a try then."
"What, you mean today?"
"Yes, today. Why, is there a problem...?"
"Oh no, no. I was just, er, thinking that... er... no, it doesn't matter."
"No, go on. What were you going to say?"
For once I looked quite intently at him. I knew exactly what was on his mind, just as I knew full well the mix of clientele at the pub I'd mentioned, but he was clearly struggling to frame his words in a way that didn't explicitly suggest that my mode of attire wasn't just highly unusual, but bordered on the outrageous. In the end he just tried to make light of it:
"Well, unless you're going to change into some, er... normal shoes, you may find yourself being mistaken for the lunchtime entertainment there. And they'll all be on their mobiles telling their friends to come down."
I laughed, and Philip visibly relaxed as it became clear that he hadn't offended me. However I then lowered my head to my papers and he must have seen that my expression had become somewhat more serious.
"Good," I said flatly. "Sounds just the sort of place I'll like."
When I saw Philip in May of last year I was still on the rebound from my unfortunate experience with Simon, and for the first time in a long while I didn't wear any boots when I saw him that day. He must have wondered what had happened to make me play things differently, but it was a pretty hot day and maybe he reasoned that for once I had decided that having my legs encased in leather in such temperatures was too much (although it had never stopped me in the past). We conducted the meeting much as normal, but there was definitely an air of despondency throughout the time I was there and we wrapped things up much faster than usual. I ended up feeling quite guilty about it all, and when I left I apologised to Philip for not being my normal self, making some excuse about not feeling too well. He was very understanding and supportive.
I vowed to make things up to him on my next visit, but it wasn't many weeks later that I made my breakthrough with Robert. Once I'd discovered just how well I understood and was able to accommodate a man's fetish, I made the decision that at my November meeting with Philip I would take things to a new stage. I still intended to be very cautious and patient in initiating intimacy with my clients, but with Philip I was already at a point where we had a certain understanding of each other's desires, and so I saw this as a logical step now that I was prepared to go the whole way with a man. In any case, there's no point in denying that by now it was simply too frustrating to just sit in front of him and display myself. I wanted his submission to my boots, his unconditional worship of them. And I also wanted to discipline him as he finally paid homage to me in the manner that I felt I deserved.
Boot sex and shoe sex share so many techniques in common, especially as regards the worship of the heel. I get just as much pleasure watching Martin suck the heels of my stiletto shoes as I do from seeing him feeding on my boot heels. The same goes for heel-fucking. I've got a dozen or so vibrator sheaths and small dildos that have been adapted to slide tightly on to my heels, most of them having clip-rings for chains that connect to ankle straps that I wear (did you ever wonder what I meant when I made that comment about the chains attached to my ankle straps in the "Do You Want To See My Diary" post?). It really is a wonderful, sublimely empowering feeling to have a man prostrate himself before you with his head on the floor and his arse in the air, stifled groans coming from his gagged mouth as you whip his back and fuck his rear with a cock heel. I can tell you one thing about my friend Alison - when she first did this to my husband it just about drove her over the edge with excitement, and she will do well to ever experience a more powerful orgasm than she enjoyed that evening. Alison and I have vowed that one day we'll do four men simultaneously with our heels. This grovelling quartet will be feeding from doggy-bowls and we'll be pulling the leads on their collars, mocking and lashing them as we heel-ream their backsides. That will certainly be a video to watch.
But whatever exotic pleasures I'm able to provide to a man who has a fetish for shoes, they cannot begin to compare to the delights I can supply with a pair of long leather boots. The sheer surface area of the leather alone opens up too many possibilities to fully catalogue here. A man's penis can be clamped between the boots in so many places and in so many positions; his prick can be strapped to the boots or chained to them; he can be made to ejaculate over them and mop up his mess with his mouth; he can be made to polish them with his tongue for an hour or more; his cock can be placed inside a short ankle boot and he can then be masturbated while wearing this boot-sheath, spraying his load into it, and then being made to dutifully drink the contents as they are tipped into to his mouth. I wasn't exaggerating when I said in the "Girl Who Loves Cream" post that a domina's boots are for more than just show. Boot domination is one of the lynchpins of my control over Martin, just as it will be over other submissives I take on in the future.
Philip would almost certainly have seen the difference in me on that day in November when he opened his door to let me inside. On an occasion such as this where I know I'm going to be taking things to a new level, I'm totally unable to hide my excitement and sexual arousal, and looking into my eyes alone would have told my client that something was afoot this day; that this meeting was going to be different than normal (not that our meetings could ever really be considered as such).
I hadn't made things any easier for myself that day by wearing a strap-on stimulator. I hadn't used one of these until recently because I'd never been able to find one which really worked effectively. Several years ago I bought several of these devices because I'd always loved the idea of being 'comforted' on a permanent basis, but every one of them turned out to be a huge disappointment. Some were just stupidly designed - too bulky or poorly fitting - and the couple that really showed promise didn't seem to work because the flimsy straps didn't allow the stimulator to be tightened sufficiently to keep it properly positioned. I basically gave up on the idea and stuck to using a harness with rubber plugs. While these always got me really turned on, the vaginal dildo didn't really give me the stimulation I was after unless I was walking (although an anal plug drives me wild).
When I wrote the "Happy Anniversary" post I conjured up that small fantasy about being back at college again, walking up some stairs on a bus with the straps from my clit stimulator being visible. The whole idea of that really did it for me, and so I searched around a bit to see what toys were currently available along these lines. I ordered three different models, although I wasn't holding out much hope. Luckily though, with one of these designs I hit the jackpot. On the face of it this stim is not so very different from any of my past failures, but its redeeming feature is the way the very strong black elasticated straps can be pulled extremely tightly. Most women wouldn't be able to tolerate the discomfort of wearing a stimulator like this for more than a short length of time, but when I'm all turned on I'm able to put such drawbacks to one side. Even so I don't tend to wear this thing more than once a week or so - it would just be too much for me. I pull the straps ridiculously tight, but this keeps the stimulator perfectly in place, exactly where I want it.
It's actually a very short two-inch vibrator with additional moulded clitoral and anal stimulators, but I've cut off the wire leading to the battery case. There's no way I could possibly afford this thing to go off accidentally in public, but in any case I'm very lucky in that I don't really need vibration to get a release from sex toys when I'm highly turned on - just contact can be enough. Despite the tightness of the straps, the shiny front nipple on the device rests quite gently against my clit, and I only need to make small body movements - crossing my legs for example - to get a ripple of pleasure rush through me.
I get such a kick from wearing this toy that I've bought another which I wear around the house occasionally, this time with the vibrator turned on. It's another great way to intimidate Martin. I'll make him a cup of coffee and just walk into a room where he's sitting, with the mini-vibrator buzzing away on a low setting. It's like saying to him: Look, I don't even need your tongue any more when there are toys like this available. A while later he'll hear my moans coming from the kitchen as I have another orgasm, but I don't turn the thing off. I'll maybe enter the room again as I'm putting a coat on, telling him that I'm going to drive to the village to post a letter, and he knows darn well that unless there's someone in the immediate vicinity of the post box then I'll get out of my car with my toy humming away inside me, with only my short coat covering my PVC miniskirt. It's a tremendous turn on to play such kinky games.
When there's no vibration the feeling's very similar to having Martin's tongue gently teasing my clit. It doesn't induce orgasm (thank goodness), although I can easily make myself come just by pressing my hand against it and massaging for a while, something I often do when I get back in my car after seeing a client. One side effect (which I have to admit I enjoy) is that wearing this stimulator makes me extremely wet, and I can only have it strapped to me for a few hours or so before I either have to remove it or change my underwear. I can't really wear leather or latex briefs because of this issue, so I tend to wear some see-through silk or lace panties instead. Another real plus here is that I can humiliate Martin with these when I get home, showing him how much my business client has excited me, and then shoving my panties into his mouth, making him suck and chew on them as I put him over my knee for a spanking.
I'd fondled myself several times on my journey to see Philip that day and by the time I arrived my panties were already heavily damp with my arousal. As I got out of my car and walked up to the large main door in my shiny leather boots it really was a deliciously erotic feeling - the teasing of the stimulator and the wetness of my briefs already causing my excitement to grow. When my client opened the door he actually commented on the fact that I was trembling slightly. You'll soon be finding out why I'm trembling, baby, and it's got nothing to do with the cold.
I think I did pretty well to last through that meeting without making my intentions too obvious. I felt so incredibly turned on, but I kept outwardly calm, even though my facial expressions and glances at Philip probably gave some of the game away. He must have also wondered why I'd chosen to wear such a short skirt and why I was crossing my legs tighter than normal, allowing my garter straps to become completely visible at one point. Whatever my actions though, he must have eventually thought that I was just having an extreme exhibitionist kick that day, because I hadn't done or said anything else unusual throughout our discussion.
It was as I started packing things up in readiness to leave that I hit him with the words that would forever change our relationship:
"I'm stopping for lunch at the Horse again today, Philip. I was wondering if you'd do me a favour and help me put some boot straps on before I leave. They give a sort of bondage look and I'd like to tease the guys in the pub by wearing them."
Philip looked flummoxed. He clearly wasn't sure what I was talking about.
I opened my case, took out the two straps and showed them to him. "These," I said. "They're sort of like stirrups that you put under the heel of the boot and buckle around the ankle. I could do it myself, but it's much easier if someone else does it."
Philip would have known this was complete bullshit as soon as the words came out of my mouth, but all he had to do was play along with the game. He suddenly looked highly vulnerable and nervous, not at all the commanding business leader that the outside world normally saw.
"Erm, well, I... erm, okay. Sure."
I didn't hesitate. I walked straight to the chair where he was sitting and lifted my right foot up high, dropping it down slowly enough to give him time to part his thighs, but not so slowly that he had a chance to change his mind.
"Just slide that part underneath the foot from the back, and then put this part round the ankle."
He was breathing heavily now and there were even signs of perspiration too. As he took the boot strap from me I could see his hands were shaking. I'd deliberately got him to do this because I knew that he would have to lean forward to pass the stirrup part of the strap underneath my foot. It was a wonderful moment when he did so, as his cheek was only inches from the shiny leather. The temptation for him to suddenly yield to his fantasies and kiss my booted legs must have been almost unbearable. And all the time my skirt was hitched up on my leg with my suspenders staring him in the face. Quite possibly there was even a glimpse of my moist black panties behind them.
He was concentrating on feeding the ankle strap into the buckle and he didn't see my smile as I looked down and watched his cock become erect. I hadn't actually expected this - I thought pressure and nerves would prevent such a physical reaction, and I think it must have been completely involuntary. He was so close to those boots and his fingers were glancing against them. He had no control over his prick's response, and I'm not even sure he would have been aware of it. This was the first time I had ever seen Philip with a hard on. I imagine it must have happened a number of times before, but I never once embarrassed him by looking for one, and in any case he would sit opposite me with his legs crossed and with papers on his knees covering any tell-tale signs. Now however I could see that his trousers were straining to contain his arousal, and already I was inwardly debating how best to milk him for the very first time.
"A bit tighter," I said. "Put it on the next notch."
I swapped feet once he had successfully buckled the first strap. He didn't seem to be getting any less nervous and if anything his breathing was becoming even more laboured. On my part the desire to put my hand up my skirt and press the stimulator harder against me became almost irresistible, and I don't think there's any question that I would have climaxed within seconds had I done so.
When his hand finally moved away after securing the second strap I knew it was time. Several years of foreplay, and it had come down to this.
Here it is, my baby. Here's the moment you've always dreamed of.
"Feel the leather, Philip. Feel how smooth it is."
Almost in reflex his hands moved towards the boots, but then they hesitated, just as Simon's had when I had asked him to touch my rubber bra. But here I wasn't going to grab Philip's hands and help him take that final leap. He was a business client, and it had to be his move.
Come on, be a good boy. Come to momma.
His hands moved closer, almost touching, but then he backed off again. "I can't," he suddenly said. "I'm sorry, I just can't."
"Yes you can, Philip, you know you can. It's what you want. We both know it's exactly what you want."
Again his hands tightened and started to move, but just as I thought he'd submitted to his desires he pulled his arms sharply away, as though his body had suddenly been freed from some inner demon whose control he had been fighting. His whole demeanour instantly changed, and when he spoke again I immediately knew that Philip wouldn't be licking my boots that day. Maybe not any day.
"I'm sorry, Maria, I can't. I won't. Seriously, it's not going to happen. Come on, please back off and sit down."
His tone of voice was assertive now, the client in charge. It wasn't really a request to me, it was an order, and I unhesitatingly complied.
It's hard to explain what I felt at that moment. Disappointment for sure, and some embarrassment as well, but at the same time I was strangely philosophical, probably because I had always anticipated that I could get such a reaction from him. I didn't really feel any defensiveness at all, and when I sat down and looked at him I was very calm and confident. I didn't drop my eyes in shame or contrition, but nor did I show any frustration or anger. In retrospect I'm sure my impassiveness made things easier for both of us, because Philip looked quite emotional despite the return of his self-control.
He looked out of the window for several seconds and I just sat there waiting. Then he gave out a long sigh and turned to me.
"Maria, we both know full well what's been going on when you come here and where it might lead, and it's something that's been eating away at me for a long time now. But I need you to understand - understand for certain - that it isn't going to happen. It will never happen. I've been married for over twenty-five years, I've got three grown up kids, and I've got a business that I've built from next-to-nothing. I don't want to lose any of those things, and I'd be in danger of doing so if I gave in to the temptation of getting involved with you. I love Rachael too much, and I'm not going to risk losing her. The same goes for my kids. I don't want to upset you - you've made life... well, it's been unbelievable really. If I could tell you how much I've always looked forward to seeing you here... but it just can't go on like this. My head's too messed up with it all, and it's got to stop. Today."
There wasn't really much point in me arguing against anything he'd said, but I didn't want to walk away from there without at least discussing the matter. Also, and this probably sounds a bit awful, I knew I'd get turned on by letting him know what he was missing out on. I wanted to leave him with regret, but it wasn't malicious as it would have been with someone like Simon. I just wanted to leave him wondering what might have been.
"Rachael never has to know. And anyway you don't have to 'get involved' with me. I come here two or three times a year and let you feel and kiss my boots... is that getting involved?"
...feel and kiss my boots... I could almost see him wince as I said it.
"Yes, it's getting involved. Anyway, it's not about my wife knowing. It's about me knowing, and that's all that matters. I never want to have to look Rachael in the eye and lie to her, and I don't ever want to have a guilt inside me that she would surely one day see. So far I don't feel I've actually crossed any boundary, although maybe I'm deluding myself. But at the moment all that's happened is that a very pretty young lady has visited me on business matters and she's been dressed extremely enticingly. I've admired her very closely, but who wouldn't? But I've not touched her or even discussed anything outside my business interests. It's been a professional relationship at all times."
"I totally agree. Look Philip, I can't really argue with you, and I fully respect your loyalty and integrity. I just think it's a shame that you'll never experience what I'm able to give you. Just some harmless enjoyment."
"Harmless? Really? I mean, what I don't understand is what's in it for you? Here I am, a man in his fifties, at least twenty years your senior. And I just can't believe I'm your type, Maria, not a girl as attractive as you. So what's the deal? Money? Somehow I don't think so. Sport? Yeah, that's possible. I just can't quite fathom you out. I just don't get it."
I replied to this with such conviction in my voice that it seemed to take him aback. This is my best recollection of what I said, and it all came out without premeditation or a single pause.
"It's exactly what it's always looked like, except you can't believe it of me. I saw that you were turned on by my boots. Let's not start kidding ourselves about that or trying to deny it. Let's talk about it openly and maturely, without embarrassment, okay? You've got a fetish for boots, Philip, and believe me, I know it's a fetish because my husband's just the same. I wasn't lying when I said I love wearing boots, and when I see a man react to me wearing them it turns me on. Don't believe me if you don't want to, but I'm telling you the truth. It seriously, seriously turns me on when I come here and display myself in front of you, but it's got to the state where I'm so turned on that I need it to go further. I want you to kiss my boots, to feel them, to suck my heels, to kneel on the floor just there and lick them. I want you to get your prick out and rub it all over my boots. I want you to put your cock between them and masturbate yourself on them. I want you to ejaculate all over them. In due course I'd have brought a riding crop with me and I'd have whipped you while you paid homage to my boots. That's what's in it for me. Maybe you don't believe that a woman who wants such things - wants them for their own sake - can possibly exist, but right now you're sitting opposite such a woman."
He looked completely stunned. Shell-shocked. It might have been my directness, but I don't think so. I think it was the realisation of what he was saying goodbye to. For the rest of his life he would always be looking back, always wondering what it would have been like.
He lowered his head and rubbed the palms of his hands against his forehead for a few moments as if trying to shake the images out of his mind. "Oh, God," he said. "You said all that like you really meant it. Don't tell me you really meant it."
I let my voice soften. "I'm not playing with you Philip. That's what this was all about for me."
We both sat there for a moment saying nothing then. He was looking out into the rear garden again, lost in thought. It was me who broke the silence. I asked him much the same question about his marriage that I had asked Robert:
"Does your wife wear boots for you?"
He didn't turn back to me when he replied but kept looking towards the trees in the distance.
"No. Well, she did for a while when we first got married, but only with a huge amount of coaxing from me. She never liked doing it though. She thought it was... you know, odd. Anyway, the boots weren't like yours. I've never seen boots like yours before."
He talked of my boots almost lovingly, and there was a simple reason for this - he was genuinely in love with them. Unless you can step into the mind of a fetishist like Philip for a moment, unless you can understand how sensational it was for him to have someone like me sit in front of him with such objects of perfection encasing her long legs, you'll never be able to appreciate just how painful this all was for him. At that point he could so easily have cracked. The conflict in him was palpable and I actually felt for him as he desperately fought his urges. It wouldn't have shocked me in the least if he'd suddenly dropped to the floor and started hugging and kissing my boots, declaring his subservience to me, begging to be punished for his weakness and inadequacy.
"I'm sorry," I said, and I meant it. "Look, I'm probably not helping things much by staying here any longer, so I'll go. I hope there are no hard feelings though. I've always respected you enormously, Philip, even more so right now. I'm assuming you'll be finishing with our firm, but I hope you'll always consider me a friend. I'll always look at you in that way."
He finally found the courage to turn and face me, and he looked desperately sad. "Oh absolutely. But you'll always be more than a friend in my mind, Maria. I hope you can understand that. I just had to make a choice, that's all. It's not one I'll ever be happy about, and I don't suppose I'll ever be able to stop thinking about you, you know that."
There was an uncomfortable pause, broken by me shrugging my shoulders and saying:
"Well, I'd better get down to the White Horse and show myself off. My audience awaits..."
Philip forced a laugh. "I ought to give them a call and warn them you're on your way. Poor fools, they're not safe down there."
I kissed him lightly on the cheek as I left, and that I suspect will be the last contact I ever have with Philip, unless our paths cross at some function or other. I'll always wonder what was going through his mind as he watched me walk sexily over to my car in my glistening high-heeled boots. I also wonder how much it must hurt him to know that other men will take a different road and one day place their lips upon that gorgeous black leather as they declare their subservience and devotion to me. It's his loss, not mine.
He wrote a very impressive letter to my company explaining the reasons why he no longer required our services, praising my utmost professionalism and describing me as the most competent advisor he had ever had the good fortune to deal with. Personally I think he laid it on a bit too thick, but my bosses seemed happy enough. He's wealthy but he's not publicly well known and the firm wouldn't lose prestige, any more than it would lose much in the way of fee income. It's the largesse of the state purse that puts bread on our table today, and the Philips of this world are a dying breed for us anyway.
I was saddened to lose him, but not remorseful. In my quest for new devotees I'm going to win some and I'll lose some. Certainly I wasn't angry, at least not at him; not in the way I was at Simon. At no point had Philip ever made me feel cheap. If there was any vexation it was towards Rachael, Philip's wife. He had always described her glowingly - great mother, great friend, great cook, great entertainer. What more could a man expect? Well, he could maybe expect a woman who truly loved him to try to understand him in every way, and that includes accommodating his sexual needs, harmless as they are. That may sound unfair to you, but consider this: for the rest of his life, Philip will almost certainly never once have the joy and personal fulfilment of rubbing his erect penis against a pair of leather boots worn by a woman, a desire that will likely enter his mind virtually every day of that life. Not once. Ever. He will never be complete. That to me is simply too cruel, far too cruel.
In the "Working Girl" post I described another client with whom I played exhibitionist games, and I also mentioned him in the "Shoe Queen" entry, when Matt had looked me up and down with amazement just before I left to see Robert:
""I just can't believe you're going to see one of the company's clients dressed like that," he said.
"I've done worse," I replied. "You should see the leather skirts I've worn for Charles W------."
Charles is completely different from Philip. He's actually a few years older (and indeed he looks it), but at the same time he's more physically attractive. Superficially he's got a sexiness about him that certain men retain right into their late fifties and even sixties - tall and fit, with strong facial features accentuated by a tanned, weathered complexion that has been earned from many hours at the helm of the true love of his life - his yacht in the Mediterranean.
Unfortunately he's well aware of his physical desirability to women and he completely undermines this attractiveness through his patronising, flirtatious, oily posturing. He lays it on so thick sometimes that he makes me cringe, but what surprises me most is that many women seem to be totally oblivious to this blatant insincerity. This is especially true of both younger women and those of a lower social class than Charles. I've watched him hold court at several functions now and he will always end up with a gaggle of starry-eyed groupies around him, hanging on his every word and giggling with feigned embarrassment as he produces yet another of his syrup-laced compliments.
That may be a little harsh. I perhaps ought to consider that my position is very much different from that of these women. For most of them Charles provides a glimpse of what a life of wealth and status would be like if only they were married to the right man. As they listen to his stories of the places he's been to, the people he knows and the things he has done, I guess it's understandable that they can be so easily drawn into the illusion and be blind to the soapy delivery. And I can't deny that he's a gifted speaker. He knows how to hold an audience, never resorting to notes but instead moving his gaze regularly from one listener to another until you end up with the uncanny feeling that he's actually talking directly to you. This ability alone has always made him the perfect figurehead for his company, even if his decision-making hasn't always been quite so impressive.
From my point of view, Charles' vanity has always been a huge plus since I'm able to constantly pander to it without him being aware. Because I'm so young in comparison, it's easy for him to accept that I'm just another enthralled captive of his charisma. The fact that Martin is so much older than me also works to my benefit - the idea that I could genuinely be attracted to Charles isn't in any way absurd, and since I have always played down my husband's business interests, my client seems to take great delight in impressing me with the extent of his wealth and connections. I just sit there as if bewitched by it all.
Intellectually he's clearly my inferior, but this is probably true of most of my clients and it's something I would never make any of them aware of. I'm very good at playing the reliable, competent consultant who isn't overly sharp when she steps outside her sphere of expertise. Most of them would be shocked to find out which university I went to and even more surprised if they knew which subject I hold a Masters in. In any case, being smarter than these men doesn't necessarily make me better than them - in a straight competitive business scenario many of them would trample all over me.
At the buffet we attended where Charles first saw me in a leather skirt he didn't comment on it, but he was certainly attentive - almost embarrassingly so. I'm willing to bet that he personally vetted all the photographs taken that evening and that a number of the prints found their way into his personal collection. I was wearing stockings and suspenders that night and it's an absolute certainty that on some of the shots taken the outline of my garter straps and clasps would be plainly visible. It wouldn't even surprise me to find that Charles had a quiet word with the photographer and asked him to concentrate on getting such pictures.
I was delighted when he later jokingly made the suggestion that I wear one of my leather skirts on my next visit. There wasn't any risk in it as far as I was concerned. Right from our very first meeting I have always seen him at his company's hospitality suite at a major football ground. When I arrive there the place is usually fairly deserted and the only person who sees me is the desk receptionist who takes my name and calls up to the suite to announce my arrival. I've hardly ever seen the same girl clerk twice, and although they may wonder a little about my very high heels and seamed or fishnet stockings as I walk over to the nearby lift, my skirt is always well hidden under my coat.
As time went on these meetings became very much like the ones with Philip. Charles hasn't any great need for my services these days because his company has reduced the level of its former activities in order to concentrate on property development, and yet our meetings have continued much as before. Both of us know that the only reason I'm there is so that my client can have an hour or so ogling me in private, but it's an unspoken understanding. Once again, it's effectively a very mild form of prostitution, but one that doesn't involve any downside for either of us. However, unlike with Philip where at least I was doing genuine work outside my visits to see him, with Charles I'm very much aware that a good portion of the fees that are being paid to my company are for this voyeurism alone, and I've therefore increasingly felt it incumbent on me to provide my client with value for money. Thus the skirts I've worn in front of Charles have gradually become either shorter or more openly revealing in other ways. I've worn my favourite side-laced leather pencil skirt for him and another skirt which is also open at the sides - on both occasions my side suspenders were completely visible and I deliberately crossed my legs and turned my body to give him the eyeful I know he enjoys.
Strange as it may seem, I stress once again that all the meetings we have had together prior to the one that was held in December of last year have been conducted totally professionally. If all the meetings with every one of my clients had been recorded on audiotape then you would not be able to tell which of them were being held with Philip or Charles, apart from some complimentary introductory remarks. Charles will say something like: "That's a fabulous outfit you're wearing, Maria" or "I think that's my favourite so far", but that will be it. Even last summer when I wore a rubber skirt for the first time, Charles made little comment. It was very hot and I couldn't wear a coat or stockings, but I still wanted to excite him, so I wore a wrapover skirt with the rubber one on underneath. When I took the outer skirt off he looked slightly disappointed. I guess the black latex skirt, even though it was very short, didn't look anything special. However when he asked me whether I wanted a coffee as he usually does, I said okay, but I'd go over to the bar and pour it. It was when I turned and walked away from him that he would have first seen that the rear of the skirt was laced with a two-inch gap, and I wasn't wearing any panties. That was probably the only real view he got of my exposed rear, but for the next hour he was sweating and constantly fidgeting. He didn't have to see any more - it was the knowing that did it.
When I visited Charles in December I was determined to take things further, just as I had been with Philip. The fact that things hadn't worked out in the way I wanted in November hadn't deterred me in the least. These were the only two clients that had been playing such an openly voyeuristic game with me (I don't count the client who likes my opera gloves - that's a different relationship altogether) and I could no longer handle a situation where I was revealing so much of myself without it leading to intimacy of some sort. In the future I'm not going to allow this sort of thing to go on. One way or another I'll 'innocently' give selected clients a signal of what's potentially available, but then it's up to them to respond in a way that removes any uncertainty as to what they want. I don't intend embarrassing myself in front of anyone, and I certainly won't be giving too much of a come-on, something which I know many men would find off-putting.
That day I wore a very short shiny skirt with no panties. It's hard to describe the material - it's a sort of rubberised PVC. It's slightly flared and has a wrap-over style with a half-length zip at the front. I also wore my 6-inch heeled triple-strap sandals which you've seen a couple of times before (I imagine I'll be wearing these a great deal in the coming months because I've never found a pair of shoes with such an awesome heel height that I can walk so effortlessly in). I was also wearing a thin, semi-transparent patterned top which at close range did little to disguise my latex bra and short corset.
I couldn't resist wearing the strapon stimulator again - it had given me such amazing pleasure when I wore it a month previously. Even though Philip had rebuffed my advances, just sitting and briefly discussing the situation with him had been a massive turn on and by the time I got to the pub for lunch my pussy was absolutely soaking with excitement. I did my usual seemingly disinterested show-off display, but for once I accepted a drink from a group of guys on a nearby table, eventually exchanging some harmless innuendo with them in the twenty minutes or so before I left. When I got into my car I just couldn't hold it any longer and I put my hand up my skirt to finish myself off. Just thirty seconds of vigorous movement back and forth on the stimulator was all that was needed and a devastating orgasm exploded through me. I'm sure I was too far out of anyone's sight for them to see my head suddenly jerk violently backwards as I climaxed, but I honestly couldn't have cared less. I don't want to worry all you guys out there, but some of the toys they're designing these days really know how to do the business to a girl. When I started wearing the vibrating version of this stimulator in bed I had to give it up because I could never get to sleep.
Once more I let the meeting progress normally, making my usual revealing, sexy poses as Charles looked on in undisguised admiration. There were moments where I could have made a move, but I waited until we were just about calling it a day. I'd decided to be fairly direct, simply because of the nature of the man I was dealing with. All the same, I must confess that I had absolutely no idea how he would react. Unlike Philip, I couldn't see him chickening out on the grounds of fidelity towards his wife. I'd met Jennifer a couple of times and she is the archetypical corporate trophy wife. Even in her mid-fifties she still has great bone structure and tremendous poise, but nowadays her life is centred on the ladies' social circuit - the rotary club, the golf club, the flower-arranging club, the please-shoot-me-if-I-ever-end-up-like-those-boring-old-bitches club. The idea of Charles going home to bang madam just didn't stack up, and nor did the idea that she would be particularly bothered if he were banging someone else instead, as long as he was discreet about it.
Unfortunately though I couldn't be sure whether the Lothario image that Charles portrayed to the outside world was a real one or merely a façade. You'd think if I really had any insight into men I'd have known the answer to that, and believe me, it does bother me that I couldn't tell. It was easy to imagine that some young senorita could be seduced by him and end up riding more than just the waves on the moonlit deck of his expensive yacht. At the same time however it was just as credible that he was a complete fake - that he was simply a guy who couldn't get it up anymore and overcompensated by playing the smooth seducer. I had to ask myself why a man who apparently had women practically throwing themselves at him would pay a sizeable amount of money to have a female consultant sit in front of him in kinky skirts. On the other hand, I imagine the amount of money we're talking about is petty cash compared to even his annual entertainment budget, and it was easy to persuade myself that I had that extra special something that made a man like Charles throw cost-benefit analysis out of the window.
At around three o'clock one afternoon in December I got my answer to this enigma.
"Charles, there's something I need to say before I go. It's a little difficult because I don't want to embarrass you, but... well, it needs to be said..."
He straightened up when I said this. My tone of voice gave a strong hint that I was about to touch upon a situation that had now existed for a few years without comment. He looked decidedly unhappy and very defensive.
"Look, let's be straight. I come here dressed in a way that's designed to... you know, to please you, we both know that. The thing is though, I'm not sure you fully appreciate the effect all this has on me. You're an attractive man, Charles - a very attractive man - and I'm having a problem dealing with my emotions on this. When I dress up to come here I get... erm, you know, aroused... and when I go home it's even worse. Sometimes I can't stop thinking about it for several days. It's got to the stage where I can't really handle it any more. It's too frustrating... don't get me wrong, I'm not hankering after some sort of close relationship with you, it's just that when I put on a short leather skirt and suspenders and stockings I want to... you know... I'm sorry, I'm embarrassing you..."
"No, no, no... please, I understand. I'm glad you've let me know how you feel."
I only wish you could have seen his face as he said those words. This was confirmation of everything that he already knew. He just had it - yep, he had that indefinable something that brought them to him like moths to a flame. He was in the back end of his fifties and yet this thirty-odd year old hottie was lying in her bed at night playing with herself as she thought about him. I knew it. I knew the sexy bitch wanted it. It's just like Clooney. He's got some grey now, getting on a bit... but even girls in their twenties lose it over him. Some of us have just got it. But wow, to have her say it... she's special, she's really special... to hear it from her! Any of them... I can have any of them, I know that now. Christ, I'm getting hard thinking about it. She's as good as saying that she...
"Thanks, I really appreciate you taking this so well. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I don't think I should come here any more like this. Sooner or later I'm going to do something that I'll regret. In fact right now I'm going to say something that I'll immediately regret - Charles, can I play with myself while you watch? Just say no if you don't want that, but if you don't say no I'm going to do it, okay? I need to do it."
It was the next line from Charles that told me what he was all about. You had to be there to hear the way in which he said these words and you also had to see his body language - the way he leaned back in his chair with the growing bulge in his trousers openly on display, putting a hand up to his chin like a beneficent lord about to impart wisdom to his court.
"Maria, I think you should do what you feel you need to do. Don't let me stop you."
I know you could argue that it was just luck how all this worked out, especially after my failure with Philip, but nevertheless I'll always consider that little interlude as an Oscar performance on my part. I nailed it right there, the pitch-perfect delivery that I'll do well to ever match again. I knew roughly what I was going to say, but it could never come from a script. Any attempt to rehearse a little speech like that and the whole thing would have fallen apart. Instead I improvised around a theme, and what is so exciting for me is that in the moment I said those words I really became the besotted young woman desperate to please her irresistible client Master. I just let myself go into the role and the words came out without conscious direction. Charles will always believe that I wanted him desperately because at that moment I believed I wanted him desperately too.
I leaned my head back and moved both hands to the inside of my thighs and started to caress myself.
"Oh, thank you, thank you. This is what I've always wanted. It's what I've dreamed of doing."
Charles watched with a mixture of gloating fascination and lust as my hands gradually worked their way slowly up my legs. As my shiny skirt started pulling upwards and my stocking tops and garter straps became visible, my client finally submitted to his own longings and openly started to rub himself. However it was when my skirt finally rode up high enough to reveal that I had no panties on and that I was actually massaging a device that was strapped to my vagina that Charles threw all caution to the winds and unzipped himself. A few moments later we were both avidly watching each other masturbate.
One thing you should always understand is that once I get to this stage of arousal there is never any pretence with me. I couldn't fake sexual excitement if I tried, and what my client had in front of him in those minutes was a bitch on heat, a fuck-slut who badly needed cock. Just a few feet in front of her was just what she desired - a hard, swollen prick. It didn't matter who the owner was, what he was like, how attractive he was, how old he was, what she felt about him; all that mattered was that he had a prick, and she wanted that prick in her dirty, cock-sucking mouth. Sure, I should have got him to put a condom on, but that would have meant I didn't get to swallow his load. I desperately wanted that load - I wanted to go home to tell Martin that his wife had enjoyed afternoon tea with lots and lots of cream.
"Charles, I need to suck your prick. Please let me suck it. I want to come when you come in my mouth."
He didn't answer me but instead just gave out a long groan and masturbated even more vigorously. I rose out of my chair and dropped to my knees in front of him. He pushed his prick forward, holding it tightly at the base of the shaft and pulling the foreskin back so that the shiny head was totally exposed. I just leaned forward, closed my eyes, and instinctively began to kiss and lick. All the time I was playing with myself, although I was careful not to massage the clit stim too urgently. I kept myself right on the edge.
God, I was born to suck cock. I really mean it. I guess it helps that I have what guys would call an 'accommodating mouth', but I've really honed my skills on this since I started screwing Matt. You know by now that I will spend ages perfecting some sexual technique, and a long time ago I learned by carefully watching Martin masturbate how I should properly hand-wank a prick. I imagine that most women don't really pay much attention to something like this, or perhaps more likely they think they're naturals at giving a guy a jerk-off. Well, let me educate you sisters, you don't know what a skilled operation this is, and because you can't be arsed to become proficient at it, women like me have got a tremendous advantage over bumbling amateurs like you. Just as the manner in which you place your hands on a tennis racket, a golf club or a fencing foil is crucial to your mastery of that object, so it is with mastery of the prick. In fact it's even more difficult, because men like to masturbate in subtly different ways and so to give the perfect hand-job you have to watch the guy's face as well as his cock and adjust your hand positioning and movements in response to his unconscious feedback. Of course, you can't hold his prick like he does because you're normally facing in the opposite direction, but in the end it's all about pressure points and finding those magic spots that really do it for him.
I quickly learned that it's much the same when giving a blowjob. I could suck Matt for ages and he would love it, but he didn't seem to want to come, and when he did so he would often finish himself off with his hand, spraying over my face or into my open mouth. This was fine by me, but I wanted to be able to make him ejaculate involuntarily in my mouth; I wanted that power over him. I realised that it wasn't enough to just suck him and move my mouth back and forth - in addition I had to recreate those same hotspots of pressure that I used with my fingers. Once I'd figured out how to do this with my tongue and lips my boyfriend noticeably started creaming in my mouth more. And as time has gone on I've become better and better at it, so much so that I now basically suck someone in three distinct modes - massage mode, throat mode and release mode. I'll wager that 99% of women are only able to perform the first of those methods on a guy.
That day Charles got all three modes from me and from his reaction I suspect that this was the first time in forty-odd years of lovemaking that he'd been truly sucked with skill. His prick isn't that long or heavily girthed, and after I'd licked and kissed it for a while I took it into my mouth and gently masturbated him, letting the saliva build up, giving him a warm, wet feeling of enclosure. After a while of doing this I got him to stand up, and with his cock now in a horizontal position I just flattened my tongue, arched my head a little further back while opening my mouth wide, and pushed forward, this time not stopping when his cock head reached the back of my mouth. I knew exactly what I was doing as I'd already performed this new trick on Robert, whose prick is quite a bit bigger. Charles' cock just slid straight into my throat, and I didn't even need to consciously overcome any urge to gag.
He lost it; I mean he really lost it.
"Oh my God! Oh yes!! Yes!! I don't believe it! How can you... that's not possible... it can't be... it's all in! You've got it all in!!!"
He wasn't exaggerating. I was giving total accommodation and my tongue was rapidly flicking back and forth against his balls, something that doesn't necessarily give a man much pleasure but provides him with unforgettable evidence that full throat has been achieved. I can see why they say that the thrill of all this is more symbolic in the guy's mind than truly physically stimulating for him. I've tried making a swallowing motion to give some massage, but it doesn't seem to really work for me (I suspect I've still got much to learn on this). Maybe some highly experienced women can actually masturbate the cock in and out of their throat when they do this, but presently I can't allow the prick head to withdraw too much lest I get the gag reflex coming into play again. Nevertheless the thought that every inch of a man's prick is inside my mouth is fantastically horny, both for me and for the guy himself. I held Charles like that for quite some time as I continued to tease him with my tongue.
My client quickly regained his composure after the shock of the full penetration, and his subsequent arrogance was just breathtaking:
"There you are, that's right. Eat it all up, Maria. Be a good girl and I might let you do it again sometime. Would you like that? Would you like to do it again another day?"
I gave several eager guttural grunts to indicate that oh yes, Master, I'd love to have the privilege of doing this again to you. Thank you, oh thank you, Master.
I withdrew his prick from my throat and just mouth-wanked him normally for a while after that, and he stood there looking down from above, occasionally giving moans of encouragement.
"Show me your breasts," he ordered at one point, and I immediately obeyed. I unbuttoned my semi-sheer blouse and once I'd pulled it open I began massaging my tits for our mutual pleasure.
"Lovely," he enthused, "absolutely lovely. What's your bra made from? Is it rubber?"
"Hmmm," was all I could say with a mouth stuffed full of cock.
"So you came here wearing a black rubber bra... You really are a bad little girl aren't you?"
"Now pull the bra cups down... that's right, show me your nipples... lovely, lovely... yes, that's it, play with them, squeeze them..."
It was at this point that I took him to ejaculation. I just changed my technique, adding pressure and sucking that little bit harder and faster. He went rigid, as if I'd just put a cattle prod up his arse (boy, would I love to do that to him).
"Oh my God! Oh, yes, don't stop doing that! Just do that!... Ah, ah... that's amazing, you've just... just... oh yes..."
I stopped playing with my breasts and held his cock towards the base with one hand, squeezing tightly, and cupped the other hand under his balls, pressing upwards with my fingers behind them, something that Matt likes me to do.
"Unbelievable... oh, yes... aahh, I'm going to come... you'd better take it o... I can't hold it... fantastic... ah, ahh, ahh, ahh, aaaaaahhhhhhhhh..."
I just love it when a man comes in my mouth, especially when I've made it happen with no hand contact from him on his cock, leaving him free to urge me on by holding the back of my head. Charles isn't a tenth of the man that Matt is, or even Robert, but I can't say I didn't get just as big a thrill when his semen started squirting into my mouth and throat. I swallowed all of his load, something I'm very hit-and-miss at doing. If I time it right then I can swallow in rhythm with the spurts of cum, but if I get it wrong I don't try to fight it. I find that if I attempt to recover I just end up choking at some point and this ruins the experience for both my lover and myself. Instead I'll just open my mouth and let the cum leak out of it, making it seem intentional. For the guy this is just as exciting as swallowing, as he sees his sperm dripping out of my mouth on to my breasts, skirt and thighs.
At the moment my client's ejaculation began I moved one of my hands back to my pussy and I was frantically rubbing the stimulator hard against myself as I was swallowing his cum. I didn't quite make it in time for us to climax together but I wasn't far behind, and Charles was given even greater confirmation of his utter irresistibility as he watched his infatuated slut advisor squeal with unrestrained pleasure as she orgasmed from the pure joy of consuming his hot cum. My release was extremely powerful and he knew it, but he'll never know the real reason why. I had sucked off a man who I don't particularly like or respect, and certainly will never fancy. And yet I'd performed supremely well, with no pretence. Once I'd got going I'd loved every moment of it all and I knew I'd get excited at the thought of performing with him again, just as I am now as I write this. I knew then that I could enjoy intense sex with any man once I'd worked myself into the right frame of mind. Charles will fuck me one day in the not-too-distant future, both in my pussy and my arse, and I will be gagging for it, desperate to journey home with his sticky cum plugged inside me or leaking into my panties. This is what a whore wife does - she'll suck and fuck any man just for the kick of it.
In the next few minutes I did fake my feelings. I stood up and kissed him, a long sexy kiss. He seemed taken aback and he was very wooden in his response. He didn't strike me as a natural kisser and I imagine that he's actually a very poor lover, totally self-centred in his needs and quick to ejaculate when having intercourse. But he was given no indication of my insight. Instead I thanked him, told him how wonderful it was to be able to have his prick in my mouth and how he turned me on so much more than my small-dicked husband. It was an honour to be able to pleasure him. I want to be fucked by you, Charles. I won't be able to sleep properly because I'll be thinking of your hard prick ramming away inside me. Will you fuck me next time? Please? Please tell me you're going to fuck me.
"We'll have to see, won't we? But I think you've perhaps earned it. No promises though..."
What an arrogant prick. One day Charles you'll kneel before me on all fours like the miserable dog that you are and beg my forgiveness for your insolence. I'll thrash you with my whip until the tears are streaming down your cheeks, and then I'll fuck you so hard with my dildo briefs that you'll pass out. One day... patience Maria, you must have patience.
As with Philip, I hadn't outlined my plans to Martin because I couldn't be sure of what was going to happen that day, and it was a glorious moment when I broke the news to my husband that I had fellated yet another of my clients, this time a man who was well on his way to his sixtieth birthday. If Martin had ever wondered whether all my talk about having regular sex with numerous different men was just wishful thinking from a woman who was too turned on to think rationally, then it was this day when his illusions were finally shattered. When Martin first met Charles he recognised him instantly for the egotistical poseur he really is, and yet now he learns that this man has been sucked to orgasm by his cock-loving wife, something my spouse knows he will never experience again in his life. And soon, so she tells him, this dislikeable man will have his erect penis in her wet pussy and she will need a gag in her mouth to muffle the screams of pleasure as he ram-fucks her to climax.
It's not a fair world is it, Martin? And it's going to get a lot less fair before I'm done, I can promise you that.
Philip and Charles aside, one of the problems I always felt I would face when I decided that I would start offering more than just business services to my clients would be how I could signal to them that 'extras' were available. Although it had been made obvious to many of them that I liked to wear stockings and also that I had a thing for high-heeled shoes and boots, things had largely been kept on a visual level only. I did occasionally make a harmless comment that gave a hint of my licentious nature, but I never carried this too far for the simple reason that I couldn't afford to give a client the mistaken impression that I wanted matters to go further. I got a kick from turning my clients on, but there was no more to it than that. It was just a tease.
Offering sex to a client is a different matter altogether, and right from the start I knew that what I couldn't do was to come across too strongly or be too obvious. Not only could this lead to huge embarrassment for the client but I also knew that many men would not welcome such a blatant come-on, no matter how desirable the woman making it. I therefore reasoned that it would be far more prudent (not to mention erotic) to try to engineer moments where I can gradually lead the client towards intimacy without being in any way explicit until I'm absolutely certain that the man knows what he is signing up for.
As it's turned out, this is proving to be far easier than I had expected. One of the reasons for this is that men just cannot help dropping compliments to an attractive woman, and it's very easy for me to latch on to these and return some sort of loaded response which the client can then explore further or simply ignore. As you've already seen, I've also got this innate ability to deliver these throwaway lines in a seemingly innocent manner, often saying the words as I'm doing something other than looking at the client himself.
During December for example I managed to prime several of my clients with some sort of variation on this very simple theme as the meeting drew to a close:
"So, have you done all your Christmas shopping then?"
"You're kidding. I'm a man remember. It'll be Christmas Eve as usual, trudging round the shops desperately trying to find something for my wife. I guess I'll end up at the jeweller's again."
"Get her some sexy underwear. Never fails."
"Yes it does. I tried that. Crashed and burned. Got accused of buying a present for myself, not her."
"Really? But that's what's so great about it isn't it? Knowing that the guy's buying it so he can see you in it? If you bought me some underwear like that I'd want to wear it when I'm here because I'd know that you'd be thinking about it. That's the whole point of it all..."
Now, there are plenty of ways to interpret those remarks from me, but it's hard to openly accuse me of stepping out of line. Of course this sort of conversation takes many different directions depending on the client's responses, and I've never used a prepared list of 'triggers'. Instead I just go with the flow, but I seem to have this knack of being able to drop a couple of 'innocent' comments that conveniently open the door for my client and also put certain images into his mind that he probably finds difficult to discard.
Even if my client takes things further, what's the harm? He buys a lacy bra, briefs and suspender belt set for me, guessing my size if I haven't already jokingly told him it, and he gives it to me 'for fun' at our next meeting. So what? He's not going to see it is he? Even so, next time Maria's there she tells him she's wearing it all. Wouldn't he like to see? She feels she at least ought to prove she wasn't kidding. Well, there's no harm in looking is there? Just a peep? So what would you like to see, John?
The bra? Holy shit, look at those tits. Bloody liar, no way is she the size she gave me. Her boobs are bursting out of that lovely white satin. "Would you like to feel the shiny satin, John? It's beautiful..."
The garter belt? Fucking lovely. Those legs are awesome. Wish they were wrapped around my neck. "John, have you got a camera phone? Would you like to take a picture?"
The panties? Oh wow, it's frigging Christmas already! You can almost see her... hang on a minute, what're those two black lines there? What's she weari... Shit! She's got something strapped under there, I just know it! The horny bitch! She's got her cunt strapped up!"
None of these things have actually happened yet, although from one of the exchanges I had I think there's a chance that I'll be wearing a red PVC set at one of my meetings later this year, all paid for by my client. It really is becoming enormously exciting now when I visit these various men, wondering whether there will ever be any follow-up to things that have been said between us on my previous visits.
Why would a man do this? Why would he take the chance? To my mind the answer to this is very simple: I've got a very desirable body, I've got a very desirable face, but above all I go to great lengths - huge lengths - to make myself the most fuckable female a man will ever meet in the flesh. There are prettier women than me in this world; there are more beautiful women, more lovely women; but you need much more than this to be a fuckable woman. It's an art, a skill, one that needs to be practised and practised until it all becomes reflex. It's the make-up, the clothes, the shoes, the perfume, the eye-contact, the mouth, the tone of voice, the devices you use to put yourself on heat, and the raw sexual attraction. Men want to fuck me so much it hurts, and that desire can ultimately overcome all caution and common sense.
Proof of that desire came in the late autumn of last year when I visited a client who has only been with me for a couple of years, although 'client' is perhaps misleading in this case. He's not a principal of the company concerned but a senior manager of one of the firm's divisions, and my relationship with representatives such as these is normally much less formal than when I'm dealing with a board level director. His name is Gary, and he's in his late thirties. He's not married, but he's in a permanent relationship with a divorcee who has a couple of fairly young children from her failed marriage. He's very down-to-earth and extremely approachable. He's also refreshingly direct and I never have to waste time with him tiptoeing around an issue to find out what he wants. If he's unhappy about something he'll tell you straight, but there's never any feeling of being admonished by him. He's the sort of highly competent, effective upper tier manager you find in many large companies - men who have all the skills and abilities to manage at the very highest level but won't ever do so because they're too forthright or they're not prepared to get involved in the backstabbing power politics of corporate advancement.
I suppose you could say there have been signs of attraction between us since we very first met, but I'd never really played the game with him much because I see him at his division's company offices (which sounds somewhat grand, but in reality they're not particularly large) and there are too many staff around for me to get overly showy. However at that meeting last year we ended up drifting into one of those conversations which I talked of above, one where I was given a great opportunity to play the tease. I can't recall how the topic started, but he eventually said something to the effect that it was always a pleasure to see me because I managed to combine femininity with hard professionalism, something that he found sadly rare these days. To some women that might have seemed somewhat sexist, but he knew me well enough to know that I wouldn't be offended. I said, yeah, I know what you mean, it's a shame; even more of a shame that I can't wear what I'd really like to sometimes.
"Well, I'd like to wear short skirts. I mean very short skirts. I've always liked wearing them, but the only chance I get these days is at fancy dress parties, and I don't go to many of those any more."
"What, you'd like to wear them to work as well?"
"Yes, honestly... I can see you're grinning, but I'm completely serious. I've got a 14-inch plain black miniskirt that would look great matched with a smart jacket, and I'd love to wear something like that while I'm at work."
He gave a slightly awkward smile and seemed to hesitate before he replied to this.
"Well, you'll have to excuse me here, but I have to admit that that would be absolutely awesome to see."
It's knowing when that key moment arrives. I can always recognise it. I just know when it is. I dropped my head and started looking through some papers I was holding. To him it must have appeared that this interlude was apparently ending, that I was moving on to other more important matters. When the words came out of my mouth they were like an echo of my thoughts, because my mind appeared to have moved elsewhere.
"Yeah, well, if there weren't so many people here I'd wear it for you."
There was quite a pause then, but I couldn't afford to look up until he spoke again. I was just happy to have put that thought in his mind - Maria in her black mini - and his eventual response came as something of a shock to me. His voice had dropped in volume, but there was no mistaking the words:
"Well, we could always hold our next meeting on a Saturday morning. There's no-one here then."
The ripple of excitement that goes through me when I experience a moment like that is just incredible, and although I believe I'll be having many more such moments, I doubt whether the surprise and immediate arousal that accompanies them will ever lessen. It was like the time when Robert called me on the phone and I knew what it was going to lead to.
Oh Jeeze... alone with him in all the gear! Suspenders, seamed stockings, corset, kinky bra, rubber panties, spike heels, hands up my skirt, fingers in my pussy... for goodness sake girl get control of yourself and CONCENTRATE!
"Erm, let me... er, yes, okay, I don't see why I couldn't make it on a Saturday..."
Almost two months later I returned to Gary's offices dressed as you can see me in the initial picture of my previous post. I wouldn't normally have seen him until April, but I suggested an earlier meeting and he seemed very keen. Despite the outrageous thoughts that went through my head when he first suggested the idea, I didn't really know what he was expecting from my visit. I had a pretty good notion of what was going through his mind, but I couldn't be sure - I mean, maybe he just wanted to see me in that short skirt for a bit of titillation and that was it. So I kept my feet on the ground, deciding that the sort of extreme sex I like could wait until a later date if things went well that day.
Just about the first thing he asked when I arrived at his office was whether my husband knew I was seeing him that day. I hadn't expected this, but it immediately occurred to me that Gary had never met Martin and for all he knew he was a 6' 4", 220-pound former heavyweight boxer who was now content to skin rabbits with a razor blade for fun.
"He doesn't even know I'm here," I assured him. "But anyway, there's something you should know. My husband and I have an... understanding. He's quite a bit older than me and if he knew I was coming here today dressed like this he'd be, er... stimulated. I'm sure you know what I mean..."
I'm not sure he did know what I meant, but my answer seemed to satisfy him and his reaction when I took my coat off in his office was very much as I expected - Oh wow, that's amazing, I can't believe how long your legs are. You seriously want to go to work like that? Your clients wouldn't know where to look!
The skirt is very short but it's not micro length, and when I was standing up it just reached the tops of my fishnet stockings. But as soon as I sat down my suspenders became immediately visible. Gary's eyes looked like they were about to pop out of his head, even more so when I turned slightly sideways and crossed my legs, stretching the side garter so much that it looked like it would snap. He then tried to keep eye contact with me, but his eyes kept comically flicking down to my legs as he chanced just another look there.
We weren't really talking business as such, and I stopped mid-sentence as I saw his distraction becoming painful for him.
"Come on, stop trying to avoid looking at what you really want to," I said. "I'm not going to be embarrassed, am I? That's exactly what I want you to do."
His posture relaxed a little and he laughed. "Okay, you might get away with the skirt, but the stockings and suspenders - you'd be arrested. I'll tell you though Maria, it looks fabulous. Better than I'd imagined - and I've been doing a lot of imagining!"
He just stared then and the whole thing became the voyeuristic display that I'd looked forward to. With the acknowledgment that this was the whole idea and with his attention firmly fixed on my lower body, I could start teasing to my heart's content. I tightened my legs even more, causing the skirt to ride up, and then I uncrossed them. I made some lame excuse about the front suspenders being too loose, and I tightened them with my head lowered, allowing him to ogle me in his own way without me seeing it. As I pulled the garters I opened my legs, and with the skirt now much higher than it had been when I arrived he was able to get a totally unobstructed view of my black rubber panties, the lace-edged ones you've seen before. I realise that many men would prefer a girl to wear a tight thong or something in a more silky fabric, but the great thing about wearing leather, rubber or PVC underwear is the signal it sends to a man when he sees it. It says something about you, the sort of woman you are. When he saw those briefs Gary must have known once and for all that he was dealing with a highly unusual woman, and his sharp intake of breath was unmistakable.
All the time while I was doing this I tried to keep some sort of conversation going. I told him that I owned a leather skirt roughly the same length, and another even shorter. What do you think, Gary? Do you reckon a leather mini would look even better, or would it be too much to wear for work? Also I can never decide on the right stockings. I've got plain seamed stockings, fishnets, and all sorts of more intricate lacy designs. Have you any particular favourite? Of course knee length boots look great with a skirt this length as well. Do you like boots with really high heels, or do you prefer stilettos like I've got on now? Gary's answers were hesitant as he answered these questions, but at least it avoided any uncomfortable silence, something I knew could quickly make things awkward for both of us.
Once I'd finished tightening my front suspenders I made the move that would let him decide whether things should go any further. I'd liked to have done something novel here, something that you hadn't seen me do before, but I just couldn't come up with anything that gave me the safety of the play I made, and I expect this will be a course of action I follow with many men from now on because it's such a tried and tested winner. It lets the man know exactly what you want, but he can gracefully decline without anything explicit being said:
"Gary, if I come round to your side of the table, do you think you could tighten my rear suspenders for me? They came a little loose when I drove here."
He swallowed hard, but there didn't appear to be any indecision.
"Sure, no problem."
And that was it, as simple as that. If the guy says: "I'm not sure that would be a good idea" then you calmly back off with a smile on your face as if nothing happened. Any positive response and you know that things are going to start getting hot. I went round to him and bent over the table, lifting my skirt up at the rear and pushing my backside as sexily as I could towards his face. I then had the very erotic feeling of him fingering my garter straps as he tightened the elastics.
My plan was to turn around and sit on the edge of the table, eventually taking hold of his hands and getting him to start caressing my legs. I didn't need to bother though - once he'd finished with the suspenders he put his hand between my thighs and started to rub my left leg, moving his hand very slowly up and down as he massaged me. I just closed my eyes and gave out a long sigh.
"Oh yes... mmmm... that's nice."
I let him play with me in his own way. He moved his hand up to my backside faster than I really wanted, but I wasn't going to interrupt him. He obviously got a great kick from rubbing his hands over the smooth latex, and he spent some time doing this. I gave him every encouragement I could.
"Lovely, Gary, that feels lovely. You've got great hands."
I could feel him working his way towards the lower part of my bottom, and I let out a gasp - a totally genuine one - when he finally slid a hand underneath me and pushed sharply upwards, pressing his fingers into the crack of my pussy. Then he started working his fingers back and forth, pushing them ever harder so that the thin rubber of my panties was actually forced inside me. You can imagine what this did for me - you must know by now that this sort of groping from a business client is just what I like.
This carried on for at least three or four minutes. I was very impressed and excited by this - he was clearly being very unselfish, eager to give me pleasure. Eventually I turned round and got him to stand up, and from this point on there's not much I can say about it all that will be in any way new to you. I took my top off so that he could play with my breasts (he loved the kinky bra) and while he groped up my skirt I stroked his erection, eventually taking his cock out so I could wank him. We were kissing and moaning all this time, but essentially we were just like a couple of teenagers on a first date. I'm sorry if you were hoping for something unusual or revelatory, but this is very much how I believe the first liaison with any client of mine is going to play out unless I know he's got a weakness for something which I can exploit. And I don't intend to have intercourse the first time either. I want the client to have a few weeks or even months to reflect on what has happened before he decides what he really wants.
I climaxed first. He had his hand inside my panties and was fingering my pussy perfectly. He hadn't got it quite right at first, but I hadn't been afraid to tell him what I wanted and once he hit the spot he just loved how wet he managed to make me. He also loved it when he saw how fiercely I orgasmed, with my knees involuntarily giving way slightly so that he had to support me for a moment with his free arm.
After I'd got myself together and thanked him for giving me such wonderful pleasure, I sat down on a chair and started masturbating him again. He perhaps thought that I was going to suck him at this point, and he certainly wasn't expecting what I really had mind:
"I want you to spunk all over my miniskirt Gary, okay? I want to drive home today in a cum-soaked skirt. Will you do that for me? Can I wank you so you spray all over my skirt?
His eyes widened in disbelief, but his reply was almost instantaneous: "Okay," he groaned.
I made sure his prick was pointing directly at my skirt as I talked him to climax then, giving him a taste of what was there for him if he wanted to see me again.
"You've been a very good boy today, a very good boy indeed. You made me so wet didn't you... you really made me lose it... I'd like to come here again like this on another day, but that's entirely up to you, okay? I only want to do it if you're comfortable with it. But if I do come here again while we're here alone, I'll do more than this, if you want, alright? I'll do just what you like... Hmm? Would you like that?
"Would like your cock in my mouth next time?"
"Oh, yeah... yeah."
"Yes, that would be lovely wouldn't it... and would you like to spank me? Hmm? Would you like to put me over your knee and spank me for being a naughty girl?"
"Yeah, oh... oh, that would be unbelievable."
"And would you like to fuck me too?"
"Oh definitely. Definitely. Yeah, more than anything. Oh, you're making me come..."
"I'll wear a short leather miniskirt and bend over your desk, shall I? Then you can fuck me from behind. How does that sound?"
"Oh, Maria, you're... ah, ah, oh yes, oh yes, aaaaaaahhhhhh..."
The cum went everywhere over the skirt. It probably didn't help that it was me who was masturbating him, because every rope he made went in a different direction and he didn't seem to be able to stop doing them. I'd been expecting a pool of cum in one smallish area, but instead there were some twenty or so small splashes of spunk across the whole face of the skirt.
"Fabulous!" I exclaimed involuntarily. "That's just perfect. Look at all that cum! Oh Gary, I'm going to be soaking in your cum when I drive home. Thank you!"
I don't think he was really listening. His body had sort of collapsed with the pleasure of it all and he was shaking as he partially lost control of his leg muscles. Even when he'd apparently got himself together again I was still able to produce small dribbles of cum from his prick by continuing to wank, and these were dripping down on to the skirt.
I pulled him to me then and kissed him, thanking him once more. He seemed somewhat embarrassed, very self-conscious. Whether pangs of guilt were hitting him or whether it was just the natural ebb of passion that men seem to get so suddenly after release I don't know, but he seemed eager to tidy himself up and didn't look like he wanted to say much.
I just left it for a moment, figuring that maybe this was just how he would always be post-ejaculation, and I turned my attention to the skirt. I'd imagined the semen would start to soak in rapidly, but it was just lying there in white globs, almost as if the material were waterproof. I realised that if I stood up with it in that state the cum would just drip on to the floor and so I had little alternative but to start smearing it with my fingers. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Gary looking at me, but I just carried on with what I was doing. I had soon turned a mess into one hell of a mess, and when I finally looked up and made eye contact with my client he was shaking his head in puzzlement. I just shrugged my shoulders and smiled, and thankfully he smiled back. There was no point in trying to justify my actions, at least for another fifteen minutes or so, because he wasn't in a turned-on frame of mind.
As I'd done with Robert I tried to make some conversation to give Gary time to warm up again. This first time I wasn't expecting more sex, but I wanted to leave him in a positive frame of mind with some signs of renewed arousal. However he didn't seem very responsive and I think I've got to prepare myself for the possibility that he may be a shoots-and-leaves guy. I've been very spoiled with Matt and Robert. Both of them are able to get it up again fairly quickly, and once just isn't enough for them. In Robert's case he knows he's not going to see me again for several weeks, so he makes the most of it. And as for Matt... well, he's like me - when do you stop?
I hadn't misled Gary when I said that Martin didn't know I was going to see him. My husband had left home quite early that Saturday, before I had even returned home from my Friday night visit to Matt's. When Martin arrived home in the early evening I was already preparing to go out again. He couldn't hide his disappointment that I wouldn't be spending the night at home again, especially as he hadn't seen me since the previous day.
"I didn't think you'd be going out again tonight."
I was busy doing my eye make-up in front of the mirror and I didn't even look at him.
"I wasn't planning on going, but I went to see one of my clients this morning - a special visit at his offices, alone. We had some fun, but it's left me needing more cock, so I'm going out with Matt. Anyway, I was a naughty girl again, and I want Matt to put me across his knee. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow."
"Who did you see?
"Gary S-------. He works for P--------. I don't think I've even mentioned his name before."
"Will you be back tonight?"
"I'm not sure. Probably, but it'll be very late. Don't get your hopes up that I'll be playing around with you though, because I'll almost certainly be too tired."
I still hadn't made eye contact and I didn't even glance at him in the mirror when I switched to putting on my lipstick.
"You'll be wearing your cage tonight, by the way. Gary came all over my miniskirt and it's hanging by the side of your bed. I figure you'll just wank yourself stupid looking at it if I give you half a chance, so I've decided to make sure you can't play with yourself. You really are your own worst enemy, Martin. If you could just learn to control yourself..."
"It's impossible!" he protested. "Look at you now, just look at you. What am I meant to do?"
I must admit I did look extremely hot. I was dressed as an out-and-out hooker, something I do for Matt quite regularly now (perhaps too regularly). I've mentioned before how Matt and I like to role-play in public these days, and conjuring up hooker/client scenarios is something that we spend a great deal of time doing. However, I'm not going to expand on this here - it's a subject worthy of its own full post.
Martin dropped to his knees and began massaging his prick on my leg, holding my thigh with his hand as he began to kiss my leather miniskirt.
"Stop it," I said. "You'll make me want to whip you, and I haven't got time."
He just carried on rubbing himself, more urgently now.
"Martin... last warning. I won't tell you again."
I'm sure Martin finds it hard on nights like these. It's one thing for him to experience the pain/pleasure of being cuckolded, something that unquestionably satisfies his sexual needs, but it's something else to have to face such periods of loneliness. Another night by himself in the house, and he probably wouldn't even be able to look at pictures or videos of me - the frustration of being unable to pleasure himself because of his cock-cage would be too much to bear. This is something else wannabe cuckolds should consider. Your wife won't only be sharing her body with other men; she'll be sharing her time too.
My soiled miniskirt hung by the side of Martin's bed for nearly a week, and it still hasn't been washed. This will probably sound rather bizarre, but I want to have it framed in a glass case - a permanent memento of the acquisition of yet another sexual partner. I now intend to collect quite a number of such items, all carefully framed and catalogued, and ultimately I'd like to have a room dedicated to such memorabilia, including the large A3+ photographs I like to print. I want the walls of this room to be lined from floor to ceiling with numerous exhibits of my sexual decadence and marital infidelity. Incidentally, this wasn't my idea, but one dreamed up by a reader of my diary. He made the suggestion after he read about Robert being required to return my leather panties to me in a 'modified' state. Unfortunately Martin had pretty much restored them to their original pristine condition by then, so it was too late to use them to start off my new collection.
The kicker to all this, one which sent me wild when my clever correspondent outlined it in his email, is the fantasy that one day Martin's mother can 'discover' this room. She will stand there in horror and shock, unable to fully take in what her eyes are seeing. When I first wrote this piece I outlined some of the exhibits I dream of her encountering in this room, but I've since chickened out and deleted them. One I'm sure that would really get her would be a large photo of me being serviced by two beautiful, superbly endowed black men in her own bedroom at home, a capture from a video filmed while she is away on vacation abroad and I have the keys to her house. Believe me, this is one of the milder fantasy exhibits I came up with.
Horny though these imaginings are, I'm finding that at times they cause me to experience quite severe feelings of regret. I can't help thinking of what it would have been like to have acquired my current outlook when I was in my early twenties. The experiences I would have had; the amount of lovers and slaves I would now have at my beck and call; and that room with its special reminders of all that I had done... how full that room would be right now.
One of the problems I see when I proof-read through a post like this that the reader can be left with the impression that I'm flitting each day from one sexual encounter to another, with barely a pause for breath. While this may be what I would like to happen, the reality at present is quite different. The encounters recalled here took place over several months and I don't intend to see either Charles or Gary any more often than I see Robert (and that's assuming the liaisons continue). It's only Matt that I see week in, week out, and I don't envisage myself having sex so regularly with any other lover.
Let's try to put some perspective on my situation: in the fourteen months or so since I first cuckolded Martin I've had intercourse with three men (only two of whom you've been told about), I've masturbated a further two, and I've fellated a sixth. That's it. Compare this with some girls who will go out on the town on a Friday night and by the time they've finished they've maybe been with a couple of guys; or there's the swinging wife who will have had even more men in the space of a single evening. My own exploits rank as tame in comparison.
However I'd like to think that a session with me is more than just 'having a jump'. I try to make sex something very special for a man, a unique experience that he will never forget. Even with Matt I'm never complacent, even though I see him two or three times a week. I always do my best to make myself look perfect for him and I try to create variety with my clothing and accessories that will make each visit seem distinctive. He loves the fact that I've always got some sort of surprise for him, and strange as it may sound, I actually think he enjoys it nowadays when I've visited someone such as Charles or Gary. He likes to slowly fuck me from behind while I describe in great detail all the things that I did. It's not just the arousal he gets from knowing he's going to punish me for my sins, but I think he genuinely enjoys hearing the story unfold, just as readers of my diary do. And remember that in the end he gets to unload all his frustration inside me which is more than my husband will ever be able to do.
Deep down I think I always knew that my business clients would present me with the best opportunities for having extramarital sex without commitments and there's no question that I'm growing in confidence in my ability to create opportunities for men to play with me if they wish to. I also know it's very hard for them to resist. These men are dealing with a major league seductress and domina, a woman who has now made it her life's purpose to offer men pleasure beyond their dreams so that she may ultimately control them, and in many cases break them.
What would you do? Not what would you like to do, but what would you really do. You know the risks; you know that you could lose everything. But it's all there for you on a plate - all you have to do is reach out and take it. A truly sexy woman. She's into leather, rubber, satin, PVC, high heels, boots, gloves, corsets, stockings, suspenders, fetish bras, collars, cuffs, chains, handcuffs, whips, paddles, crops, canes, vibrators, dildos, plugs, clit toys, and sex machines. She wants to be spanked, whipped, pussy-fucked, mouth-fucked and ass-fucked in ways you've never dreamed of. She wants your cum spraying over her hair, face, breasts, skirt and legs. And she'll give you just about anything - all those things you could never, ever ask of your wife.
Would you say no?
Could you say no?
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