Put Me In a Skirt and Hurt Me: The Strictly Lesbian Adventures of Mistress Sophia (15 page)

The facial was great. She looked and felt ten years younger.

Next, it was time for lunch and maybe a little shopping spree. The shopping presented a dilemma. She already had a drawerful of underwear she hadn’t worn yet, clothing hanging in her closets with the tags still dangling from them, and the same for purses, and a slew of shoes she’d only worn once or twice. Her kitchen was outfitted with all the usual gadgets and a few unusual ones. Her living room and dining room were tasteful with a nice mix of contemporary and vintage. Her pantry was stuffed with goodies. There was really nothing she needed, and to her dismay, she discovered there was nothing she wanted either. She was satiated. How boring.

She decided to lunch at Monsieur Sushi. It was quick and tasty, and, at this time of day, it would be quiet. She could eat in peace. She hailed a cab and gave the address for the nearest Monsieur Sushi. The driver deposited her at the front door and she tipped him well. She was wearing her Stuart Weitzman five-inch, Time, patent leather pumps. Not the kind of thing she wanted to walk a few city blocks in.

She threw open the door and strode in. There at the counter, decked out in a steel-blue sheath, was Mrs. Pea.

Mrs. Pea looked at Sophia, then lifted a morsel of sashimi to her mouth, opened wide, and laid the raw fish on her tongue. Her eyes never left Sophia’s.
Sophia couldn’t move. She stood just inside the door and she could not move. The door opened and a young couple pushed past her and took a small table near the back. Mrs. Pea raised another piece of fish to her mouth and repeated her previous gesture.

Sophia croaked out, “May I come in?”
Unbelievable! Did she really just request permission to enter the restaurant? Fuck.

Then she saw that Mrs. Pea wasn’t alone. She was with a young Asian man, who now murmured something to Mrs. Pea in Japanese. Mrs. Pea responded and then rose.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay, Sophia, dear. I’m in the middle of my meal and I really don’t want to have you here staring at me with your mouth hanging open. Go to another Monsieur Sushi—heaven knows there are enough of them.” And with that, Mrs. Pea turned back to her friend, conversing in what appeared to be fluent Japanese.

Sophia turned and left the restaurant. She scurried away like a scolded child, finding herself three blocks from the restaurant before the pain in her calves reminded her of her Weitzman’s.

Oh, fuck!
She turned and hailed a taxi and gave the address for another Monsieur Sushi, just as Mrs. Pea had ordered.

She sat at a small table and ordered the same sashimi she had seen Mrs. Pea eating. She placed it on her tongue in that same way, feeling the fish as it lay flat on her tongue, with all of her taste buds feeling it too. Then she chewed and swallowed and did it again.

Hmmmm. That look.
She smiled.
She has that cold smoldery look down pat! I was as helpless as the fish on that sushi chef’s cutting board.
She continued to dissect the incident. Pondering each nuance, each word, each look, each gesture. Which ones had turned her on and how she might be able to use some of what she’d seen on her own subs.
Oh, great, now I’m old Mrs. Pea’s sub!
She smiled again.
There’s got to be a way for me to play this game and win. Just like with Willow, even though Willow is my sub, sometimes she controls the play, whether she knows it or not. How can I be subservient to Mrs. Pea and still be in control? Is such a thing possible?

She ordered more sushi and a bottle of cold unfiltered sake.

 24

T
HREE NIGHTS LATER
(and for the third night in a row) at the stroke of midnight, the doorbell rang. Mistress Sophia led Willow by the hand to the bathroom and stood her there in the center of the room. She took a small key from a sterling silver chain around her neck and placed it on the counter.

“Take off your skirt.”

Willow reached around and unbuttoned and then unzipped her Givenchy Punto Milano pencil skirt and let it slowly slink down her legs and bunch up at her feet.

“Step forward and kick that thing out of the way.”

Willow did as she was told.

“Now the shoes and thigh-highs.”

Willow balanced on one foot—something she’d had to practice given the height of most of her shoes—and removed first one, then the other Pierre Hardy Patchwork Bootie. She slid them over to where she had kicked her skirt. Then she began to peel back her thigh-highs.

“You’re wasting my precious time.”

Willow moved faster, rolling down the left, then the right thigh-high, and tossing them over to the pile with her shoes and skirt.

“Come to me.”

Willow stood in front of Mistress Sophia. Their eyes met and held. Without looking down, Mistress Sophia took the key and inserted it in the chastity belt lock. At the sound of the click, Willow couldn’t help but let out a little gasp. The belt was such a turn-on she’d come several times just from wearing it today without even having to touch herself. She’d had a hell of a time focusing on her trial cases, focusing on conversations, just plain focusing. The belt was a constant stimulant, driving her to distraction—lovely, luscious, wet distraction.

Sophia took the belt and dropped it on a hand towel next to the sink.

“Wash it.”

Willow got to work, using some delicious plumeria liquid soap to wash her chastity belt. She then rinsed it thoroughly and dried it, first with a fresh hand towel and then with a blow dryer.

“Now, yourself. Quickly. I don’t have all night to waste watching you,” Sophia said, taking in every inch of Willow, feeling that glow in the pit of her stomach, wanting to touch her, but knowing that, at this stage, it would not be the right move to make.

Willow let the hottest water she could stand soak a washcloth. She wrung it out quickly, squirted a few drops of the plumeria soap on it, and placed it between her legs, enjoying the feel of the plushy hot cloth against her lips and clit. She stroked herself with it, afraid she was about to come, and wanting to. But without permission to do so, it would be awful to do that now, wonderful and awful and a terrible offense to her mistress. She thought of dying children in India as she moved the cloth back and forth between her legs. Cleft palate children, underarm stains, dogs in small cages…anything to keep her in check. She rinsed out the cloth and took a new one from the stack. Mistress insisted the ass and the cunt receive separate cloths. The new cloth was applied to her thighs and then her ass and finally up and down in the crack. Willow had learned to breathe deeply, imagine the death of Bambi in the forest, to keep from moaning in ecstasy.

Mistress Sophia had to hide her smile from her sub. She enjoyed these nightly sessions almost as much as Willow did. “Are you going to be all night?”

“I’m done, Mistress.”

“Come here.”

Willow returned to stand before her mistress and be locked back into the chastity belt. She felt so lucky. So happy. Her mistress cared so deeply for her. What more could a girl ask for? Well, maybe to be turned over her mistress’s knee…but not much more. Not much more.

25

P
ORSCHE PUSHED HER FACE
into the side of the building, tears mingling with the grime of the bricks. She sobbed, choked, took a deep breath and pulled herself together, wondered if she should walk back to Starbucks and beg for her job back, realized that wasn’t going to happen and that she’d just lost her job, another job, and began to sob again. She felt a hand on her shoulder as a voice said, “Are you all right? Do you need me to call the police or ... someone?”

Porsche shrugged off the hand roughly. “Go away!”

“Oh. Well, then. So, you’re OK?”

“Do I fucking look OK?” Porsche wailed.

“Oh, well, no. No. That’s why I stopped I mean ... well ... can I help in some way?”

“Oh, great! Another fucking goodie two shoes may I help you may I help you? Fuck.”

Porsche turned ready to spew venom and looked into the soft blue eyes of a nun.

“You fuuuu ... ” The breath went out of her.

“Kleenex?” asked the nun.

“Yeah, OK.”

“Rough day?”

“To put it mildly.”

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

They entered the coffee shop and sat in a booth. The nun took Porsche’s hand and looked into her eyes.

“God meant for me to find you. You may not believe it and that’s fine. But God wanted us to meet. He led me down that street to find you. He placed you there at the very moment I would be passing. There’s a reason He did it. I don’t know what it is yet, but I’m sure it’s divine intervention. I’m Sister Alice.”

Porsche felt trapped inside an episode of
Twin Peaks
.

“Jane. Doe,” she said.

“I see. Well, fine, Jane. It’s good to meet you.”

Porsche withdrew her hand from under the nun’s and fiddled with a packet of sugar. Sister Alice sat in stillness and silence. The coffee arrived. Sister Alice picked up her mug and blew on the surface of her coffee then took a noisy sip. Porsche tore the top off a creamer and poured it into her mug, followed by four more. Then she took 3 sugar packets and added those as well. She picked up her mug and took a swallow.

Fuck, if I’ll blow on my coffee. Pussy nun.

When her cup was half empty, Porsche stood. “Thanks for the coffee, Sister.” She headed for the door.

“Jane!”

Porsche turned around.

Sister Alice rushed over to Porsche.

“ I don’t really have a chance to talk to anyone much about anything other than ... spiritual things. I’d love to have a conversation about politics or who’s winning on Survivor or fashion or ... ”

“Fashion? You really want to talk about fashion?”

“Did you see what Dior put out on the runway last week? Dreadful! He should be ashamed!”

“Oh, my God, it was like ... CRAP!”

They returned to the booth.

An hour and three more cups of coffee later, both women were giggling and blasting or worshipping every designer they could think of.

“Jane, this has been great! I mean, I love my life as a nun, but sometimes, well, sometimes it’s ...

“Porsche.”

“What?”

“My name is Porsche. Not Jane.”

“Oh. OK, Porsche. Can we meet again?”

 “Sure.”

“Here’s the phone number at the convent. Sister Alice withdrew a business card from her purse and handed it to Porsche.

“Uh, I hate to ask, but could you lend me $10 for taxi fare?

“Oh ... sure.” Sister Alice dug in her purse once more, pulling out a tenner.

Porsche took the ten spot and stood up.

Back at her apartment Porsche leaned back in her bed and stretched her naked body out. She fired up the joint that she’d bought with the nun’s $10 and sucked in hard. In her other hand was the Lelo. She flipped the switch, took another drag, and pictured herself with Sister Alice in a very compromising position.