Put Me In a Skirt and Hurt Me: The Strictly Lesbian Adventures of Mistress Sophia (2 page)

With that, Sophia unzipped her leather skirt and let it slide to the ground. She never wore panties under leather clothing; she loved the feel of raw animal skin against her bush. She stepped out of her skirt and, keeping her heels on, lay face down on the bed, spread her knees, and thrust her ass high into the air. Willow approached silently and began to lap at the puckered pink smile of her mistress. Her own pussy was dripping, but right now, she had a task to accomplish, and she planned on meeting her mistress’s commands to the letter. She must pay strict attention to when and how that ass responded. She had to listen intently for the slightest sigh of approval or disapproval from her mistress. These smallest of clues were all she got and all she needed. And now, that sweet pink ass was slowly opening to her gentle tongue.

Willow wanted to speed up (she was close to coming herself now) but she knew from past experience that her mistress didn’t like that—no, not at all. It was the slow approach, the cautious ascent that Mistress demanded. Willow was in awe of her mistress’s style: never quick, never hurried—instead, preferring a steady Zen-like lap of the tongue, never allowing herself to bend to her emotions, reaching a fever pitch (yet still totally controlled) and coming like a freight train barreling through a small town on an empty night. Willow could do that for her. She could be that slow, steady lap, lap, lap. Never wavering, never a break in tempo. She’d practiced long and hard to do it and Sophia had rewarded her with whippings and bindings and all sorts of other luscious treats.

Now, Willow moved her tongue to the downy softness of her mistress’s lips. This was the hardest part for Willow. She preferred a waxed, or at least a well-trimmed, beaver, but Sophia kept hers full. The hairs tickled Willow’s nose and made her want to sneeze—which, of course, was a punishable offense, and not a nice punishment, but more likely excessive kneeling or even banishment. Willow concentrated hard and kept on with her metronome-like lapping, each move of her tongue in concert with her thought,
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Sophia’s lips responded readily, plumping and glistening. Willow was surprised. Sophia usually took some time to heat up.

So, the quirt excites you as much as it does me!
Willow surmised with glee.

She inserted her fingers into her lady’s pussy and ass in one well-practiced, smooth motion, and felt both grip her tightly. This, too, was a surprise. Sophia was more responsive than usual.
Something’s not right, but whatever it is it works for me, works beautifully for me,
Willow thought. She completed her task, as ordered. Sophia rose up, slightly crushing Willow’s fingers with her pulsing pussy, and then nonchalantly fell gracefully forward. Willow smiled.

A divine silence followed, interrupted only by the soft shifting of Sophia’s limbs against the sheets.

Willow gathered her things and left, locking the door behind her and dressing outside in the courtyard. When her mistress said, “gather your things and leave,” she meant it. There was no room for error.

3

S
OPHIA HEARD THE CLICK
of the lock and rolled onto her back. She gazed up at the ceiling. She lifted one then the other of her Louboutins and waved her feet around in small circles. Then she let her legs crash down to the bed and frowned. A sip of vodka and then time to examine last night’s behavior once again, this time without the distraction of Willow.

She poured the drink and took a slug. She swished it around in her mouth like Listerine before swallowing it down. She coughed a little. Drinking straight vodka was more a “do this in front of Willow” thing not a “thank God she’s gone and I can put on a pair of sweats” thing. She kicked off the heels and curled her feet into little fists. She loved wearing her stilettos almost as much as she loved taking them off at the end of a session. She pulled a locked suitcase out of her closet, entered the combination, and opened it up. Inside was a pair of blue sweatpants, a
BISBEE, ARIZONA
T-shirt (worn-out and holey), and a USC sweatshirt two sizes too big for her and covered in popcorn oil stains. She removed her Versace silk blouse and her La Perla bra and pulled on the sweatpants and T. She let out a sigh and padded into the kitchen, checking the door on the way to make sure it was locked. She turned off her phone and thought about making a bowl of popcorn, but decided any thinking about last night should really be done on an empty stomach. She walked into the living room, grabbing a pillow from the couch. She flopped into her blue chair and wrapped her arms around the pillow.

“We’ll go to the ladies room now,” the elegant woman had commanded.
And didn’t I just bob up like a pin?
Sophia thought in wonder.
Just like a little pin ... like Willow when I asked her to get the birch branch ...
Sophia shuddered, but couldn’t tell if it was from pleasure or horror—or maybe a bit of both.

Sophia had followed her—this indescribable being—down the hallway to the ladies room. She’d observed the tailored blue skirt and blazer, Armani, and her shoes ... where had she gotten those shoes? They were some kind of animal skin, but what? They weren’t stilettos, but somehow the low heel, the vintage look of them, was almost Victorian—like something Marie Antoinette might wear. How in the hell did she make them look so hot? Sophia had been mesmerized.

Coming out of her revelry, Sophia grabbed the phone and turned it on. She hit the “4” key, speed-dialing her friend Edna. Edna, the shoe fanatic. “Don’t ask any questions just give me the right answer,” Sophia replied to Edna’s cheerful, “Hi, this is Edna Brandon-Smith—and it’s 11 o’clock at night so this better be important!”

Sophia related everything she could remember about the shoes.

“Sidewalks,” Edna stated flatly.

“Sidewalk?” Sophia asked as flatly.

“No, Hon, not
sidewalk
like you walk on, C-Y-D-W-O-Q, as in Burbank. Man’s a genius.”

“Than”—Sophia had already cut the call—“nks” and grabbed her Ipad. She googled CYDWOQ and found the website. She clicked on
women’s shoes
and had to look through half of the “vintage line” before finding
the
shoes: They were called “Rho.” Staring at them, her pussy felt hot. Her nipples hardened.

Oh, fuck, what IS this? High school? Really? Really? A picture of a pair of shoes is turning me on? Me? Who the fuck was that woman?

The woman in the Armani and Cydwoqs had walked down the hall in front of her. Sophia had watched those hips, watched the calm way the woman walked rigidly down the hall—and how could that be? Who can pull off calmly rigid? She had to have been an ex-nun.

Sophia squeezed the pillow.

“Come on, now,” the woman in the Armani had said, holding open the bathroom door like a doorman at a fancy hotel.

Sophia had walked past her into the bathroom, hesitating before turning, almost waiting to be told she was
allowed
to turn around. She’d tried to regain her equilibrium.

“What do you want from me?” she’d challenged, even jutting out her chin.

Pathetic, s
he thought now, clutching her little pillow.

“What makes you think you could possibly have anything I would want, dear?”

Sophia clutched the pillow tighter. Yes, she’d said that ... but she’d had a twinkle in her eye. She’d been joking, surely. And the woman had invited ... no, she’d
commanded
her to the ladies room.

“What’s your name?”

“Sophia La ... ”

“Only your first name. I have no interest in your last name, Sophia.” The woman had paused and looked her up and down. “Sophia is an awfully pretty name for such a plain girl.”

Sophia had flooded at that. Completely and totally wet her pants. All the adoration Willow and Susan and Bonnie and all the others had bestowed on her barely caused a stir, and yet this woman calling her plain created a river between her legs. She’d wanted to reach her hand down and stroke herself desperately and had to grab her own hand to stop from doing it.

“Sophia, take off your panties and give them to me. Will you do that for me?”

Sophia had reached under her skirt and yanked at her panties, nearly ripping them in the process. Slow-steady-lap-lap-lap Sophia couldn’t move fast enough to obey the request. She’d flung out her hand, panties dangling from her fingertips, and waited for the woman to take them, hoping painfully that their hands might brush against each other.

“I’m Mrs. Pea. Like a sweet pea. Can you remember that?”

“Mrs. Pea.”

Mrs. Pea had opened her purse and held it out, and Sophia, after a moment, understood that she was to drop the panties into the open mouth of the purse.

“I’m going to take your panties home with me now and I’m going to lie down on my fainting couch and I’ll put your panties over my face and smell you while a very dear friend of mine works me, fucking me hard with a very nice dildo I happen to have. Oh, it’s my favorite to be sure. I’ll have this friend of mine fuck me very, very hard with this very nice dildo, all the while inhaling your lovely perfume. Doesn’t that sound divine?”

With that, Mrs. Pea had snapped her purse shut, walked past Sophia, and gone out the door.

Sophia had stood there, perfectly still in the middle of the bathroom, coming violently.

Sophia dropped the pillow to the floor, reached into her sweatpants, and began to press and pinch and roll the folds of her lips and clit. Her fingers slid effortlessly into her sopping pussy. She pushed harder, her fingers for once inadequate to the task, not slender enough, not smooth enough. She wanted them to be stronger. She wanted them to be someone else’s. She pulled her hand out, stumbled up out of the chair and into her room. As always, the shades were drawn. A small white ceramic lamp shed light against the pale pink walls, festooned with several art deco mirrors—the better to watch herself with her subs. She threw open her sex toy drawer,
which was organized by size, color, and brand, and grabbed her favorite Lelo vibrator, a black rubber colossus with 21 different settings. Sophia flung herself onto the bed, massaging her cunt with the vibrator
,
flipping through the settings and varying the intensity, her legs straight out, high in the air, then bicycling. Sophia rubbed, thrust, and jiggled the vibrator against her slick pussy, insane with the urge to come again and again as she relived the incident in the bathroom.

“You’re plain ... so plain ... I yanked my panties down ... I’ll yank them down ... plain girl ... Oh, fuck ... Oh, yeah ... Oh, Jesus, fuck me ... fuck me ... ffffffffuuu ...”

Sophia threw the vibrator to the empty side of the bed and sat up, the hunger in her core still gnawing at her, seeking release. “Aargh!” she cried, then threw her head back and gazed at the ceiling.

4

P
RIDE ALMOST STOPPED HER.
Almost. But the next evening at 7, she showered, chose a fucking awesome pair of red lace panties that had cost her, oh, about two month’s rent, and threw on a black halter dress she knew did great things for her ass and tits. She spritzed herself with a little Aqua di Gio and applied her make-up carefully. She thought about taking a purse so she could ask some random submissive to drop
her
panties into it, but knew that she wanted Mrs. Pea to have that role and that she wanted her own panties to be the ones that fell into the open maw of that sleek leather handbag. Only hers.

She got her cab driver to run two red lights heading to Happy Betty’s. Now, she sat on the same bar stool as before and nursed her second martini. Mrs. Pea wasn’t there. Chance hadn’t remembered her, or said she didn’t, but there was a certain look on her face that led Sophia to believe the sly butch knew exactly who she meant when she asked who “that older woman I bought a drink for two nights ago” was or when she’d be back or if she came in often. Anything.
Anything
about Mrs. Pea would be welcome. And Chance had said nothing.

Like a slave, Sophia began going to Happy Betty’s every night. Was Mrs. Pea some weird contrivance the bar had devised to get uber-loyal customers? Where, oh, where was Mrs. Pea? Sophia had had to replace the batteries in the Lelo twice in the last two weeks. Her pussy was nearly to the point of having calluses.