The Mistress and the Waitress
I had always harbored a secret side, a deep-seated desire to be dominated and led. For months, I had exchanged messages with a woman known only as D.Salma. She was authoritative, inflexible, and utterly captivating. When she finally agreed to meet me at a quiet bar on Circe Street, my heart hammered against my ribs. I arrived early, waiting in the stillness of the terrace, until I saw her approach. She carried an air of absolute superiority that made me instinctively lower my gaze.
As we spoke, the tension between us grew. Salma’s voice was calm but commanded total obedience. Under the table, she suddenly pressed her heel firmly into my crotch, a sharp reminder of who held the power. “Approach me, dog,” she whispered, her tone an irresistible command. I leaned in, enduring the pressure of her shoe, my breath hitching as she demanded I massage her with my foot. As I slid my foot upward, discovering she wore no underwear, I felt a surge of adrenaline. I was completely at her mercy.
The moment was interrupted by Bea, the stunning waitress. Bea had a knowing smile, her eyes dancing with a complicity that made me flush crimson. Salma noticed my distraction and her voice turned cold. “Who gave you permission to look at her?” she snapped. As a punishment, she ordered me to the restroom to wash myself, ensuring I carried none of her scent. I obeyed instantly, my mind racing with the thrill of her anger.
In the restroom, the encounter escalated. Salma entered behind me, her presence filling the small space. She stepped onto a metal bin, exposing herself to my desperate gaze. “Get on your knees now,” she commanded. I sank to the floor, tasting her with a devotion that bordered on worship. When she caught me attempting to pleasure myself without permission, she delivered a sharp slap to my cheek that left it pulsing with heat. “That is for touching yourself without my leave,” she murmured before kissing me deeply.
Then, the unexpected happened. Salma handcuffed me to the sink and dragged me into a private stall. She tied my legs, leaving me vulnerable and exposed. As I returned to her, the door opened, and Bea entered. I felt a pair of hands grasp my hips, and suddenly, I felt the sharp sting of a slap on my backside. “He has a nice ass, your little slave,” Bea laughed.
The experience became a whirlwind of sensation. While I remained focused on Salma, Bea used a strap-on to penetrate me from behind, her rhythmic movements pushing me harder against my Mistress. I was trapped between them, a plaything for their mutual pleasure. The combination of the sterile restroom smell, the humilation of my bonds, and the overwhelming physical intensity drove me to a state of pure ecstasy.
After they both reached their climax, they allowed me to release myself, provided I cleaned up every drop of my seed while they kissed and touched each other in front of me. When it was over, Salma gave me one final slap and ordered me to leave. I walked home through the cool night air, feeling reborn and utterly branded. I was no longer just a man; I was her slave, and I lived for the day she would call me again.