Shame compounded shame as she crawled into her daughter’s room.
Mariah ordered, “Get naked, slut.”
Laying on her back like a puppy wanting to have her belly rubbed, Sandra undressed, although it must have looked absurd.
As Sandra got naked, Mariah gave her more criticism. “I can’t believe how far you’ve regressed. You have panties on, a bra and no stockings… you must really want me to punish you.”
“No,” Sandra grew defensive, “it’s just when I broke free of you I couldn’t bear to have any reminders of the old me. I had to become the complete opposite of your pet.”
“I see,” Mariah mused, “well, as time permits, I will create a new list of rules for you to begin complying with, but I expect you to be in stockings at all times starting tomorrow when you go to purchase a new wardrobe, is that understood?”
“Yes, Mistress Mariah,” Sandra agreed, knowing that complying with this requirement would add one more subtle, at first, layer to her submission.
Sandra flashed back to the first time she wore stockings before she was first fucked by Mariah:
“Are you really going out like that?” Mariah asked me.
“Like what?” I asked, confused. I thought I looked professional in my black skirt, white blouse and blazer.
“You’re an adult now, so you should be wearing stockings,” Mariah informed me, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Oh, I hate pantyhose,” I told her.
“I hate getting my period, but that’s just life,” Mariah countered then, “wait here,” going into her room. Returning, she ordered, “Sit down, Sandra.”
I obeyed the order although I was confused.
Mariah fell to her knees and removed my flats. “And these shoes? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I hate heels,” I defended, adding, “I’m kind of clumsy.”
“Well, then you need to practice wearing them until you’re not. You’re a woman now, not some teenager,” Mariah scolded, even though we were both still teens, both turning nineteen in the first week of September. Mariah was six days older, which she would remind me about many times throughout the next four years.
Mariah rolled up a black stocking and slid it up my legs as I watched, stunned. A girl’s hands, especially ones belonging to someone as pretty and sophisticated as Mariah, had me flushing with a certain excitement I tried to ignore.
“I can’t wear these in public.” I objected, realizing Mariah was rolling up a stocking and not pantyhose.
“You can and you will,” responded a confident Mariah. “Your skirt will be long enough to hide the lace top of the stockings most of the time, and it will make you look professional at your dinner.”
“But…” I began.
“No, buts,” Mariah interrupted me, moving to my second leg, “I know what’s best for you. Don’t forget I’m older than you.”
“By six days,” I pointed out.
“And two hours,” Mariah added.
“Actually, one hour and fifty-seven minutes if we’re playing that game,” I countered, my roommate’s hand on my thigh.
Mariah’s hands lingered on my thigh once the second stocking was on, knowing that in the near future that cunt would be hers.
Mariah told me later that she knew the first day she met her shy, southern roommate (me) that I was submissive and after a few days, she was confident I was a lesbian but just didn’t know it yet.
I held my breath, my pussy getting wet just from the touch of my roommate’s hand on my leg.
Mariah stood up and instructed, “Wait here.”
I waited obediently even as I looked nervously at the clock. I always wanted to be at least fifteen minutes early to any event.
Mariah returned with black pumps. “Now if we had more time we’d paint your toenails, but that will have to wait for another day, and we’ll also need to spend some time getting you used to real high heels.”
“Real high heels?” I asked, slightly flustered. “These aren’t?”
“Yes, at least three inches, preferably four or five,” Mariah explained casually. I couldn’t fathom even attempting to walk on such stilts. “But for tonight I’m giving you a nice simple two-inch heel.”
I was protesting even as Mariah returned to her knees and started putting the shoe on her slave-to-be’s foot. “I can’t wear these, I’ll kill myself.’
Mariah laughed, “No one’s ever been killed wearing two-inch heels, silly.”
She slipped the second heel on me and after getting up, pulled me up. A brief wobble followed. “Now walk,” Mariah ordered.
I took a deep breath and tried walking. After a few steps of awkwardness, I got used to the slight angle and height difference. I realized they made me feel more feminine and even slightly sexy.
Mariah complimented me. “Well done, Sandra, you probably could have handled the three-inch pumps.”
I cautioned as I reached for my purse, “Let’s take baby steps.”
As I reached the door, Mariah teased, “Now don’t go fucking the first hottie that notices you looking so fuckable.”
I shook my head and went out the door, but my pussy tingled at the thought of Mariah, a goddess of sexuality, thinking I was fuckable.
“Crawl onto your daughter’s bed, my kitty,” Mariah ordered.
Sandra crawled reluctantly to her daughter’s bed and onto it, assuming some sort of humiliation was coming next.
Once her pet was on the bed, Mariah instructed, “On all fours, like a good puppy.”
Again Sandra obeyed, the excitement of being fucked overcoming any thought of humiliation or future consequences of disobedience.
“You’re such an obedient little thing,” Mariah praised, “it’s hard to believe you had the guts to try living without me.”