TITLE: MASTERS PET (1)
CHAPTER 1
One little step.
All Cynthia had to do was take one little step, and she would be out her front door. From there, she knew that she could do this. Breathing deeply, she lifted her foot and tugged at the door, poised just at the cusp of moving forward. But then, at the very last moment, she froze, her chest seizing painfully.
With a sigh, Cynthia took her hand off the knob and retreated back a little farther into the shadows of the entryway. The foyer to her building was small and dim, and for all that it was public, it was safe. Comfortable.
Nothing else about Cynthia’s situation was comfortable right now.
Biting her lip, she inched forward again, emerging just far enough into the light to be able to see herself reflected in one of the panes of glass that framed the door. She looked good, she knew, but it almost made things worse to acknowledge it. Her hands curled up into fists, and for a moment, as she contemplated yet again the single step she needed to take, her stomach clenched and twisted.
Cynthia Cohen was not the kind of woman who didn’t wear underwear. She wasn’t the kind of woman who wore short skirts or knee-high stiletto boots while she was not wearing underwear, and she most certainly was not the kind of woman who wore her metal-studded leather play collar out of the house.
Yet still, here she was, prepared to do all of those things.
For years, Cynthia Cohen would have said that a perfect evening was one spent reading a book on the couch in her living room, her long red hair twisted into a bun and secured with chopsticks, her feet toasty in fuzzy slippers and her curves disguised by baggy pyjamas.
But then she had met Richard, and Richard had helped her to see that an even more perfect evening included being naked and sweaty, her hands bound. On her knees.
Just the thought of their nights spent together in such a fashion made Cynthia’s throat tight and her chest hot, the aching space between her thighs clenching uncomfortably. As her lover, Richard had helped her to see herself as more than the quiet bookworm she had always been. But it was as her master that he had helped her to explore what it was to be a sexual woman to give and to submit. To serve and to let go.
To receive.
When he had first revealed his preferences for rougher, kinkier sex, she had been wary, of course. No one had been more surprised than she when she’d realised just how much the way he tugged her hair and ordered her around turned her on. Slowly, over a period of months, she had given herself over to his desires, finding that the more she pleased him, the more she pleased herself. That she liked being a sexual creature. An object.
Atoy.
Still paralysed at the threshold to the door, Cynthia shivered as she thought about the kind of toy Master increasingly seemed to want her to be. In their more tender moments, he had explained his desire to help her see herself as a beautiful, sensual woman. It was one of her last few boundaries her reluctance to allow herself to behave wantonly anywhere outside of the bedroom or the playroom.
As her lover, he had begged her to eschew her librarian glasses and her frumpy sweaters.
Finally, as her master, he had ordered her to.
The memory of his voice, rough and lustful in her ear as he’d explained what he wanted her to do, awakened another blooming rush of desire inside her body and, with a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and brought her hand up to touch her collar. The feeling of leather and metal beneath her fingertips helped to ground her, and she finally found the frame of mind she needed to do what had been asked of her.
She opened the door.
And stepped through.
Cynthia made it about half a block before she realised exactly how wrong she had been, huddling in her entryway and trying to summon the courage to move. Yes, the first step had been the most difficult one, but it had hardly been the only one that would challenge her.
The fact of the matter was that her feet hurt and a bitter winter wind was whipping up her obscenely short skirt, making the bare flesh of her thighs feel numb from the chill. She was still on a sidestreet, and already she had passed half a dozen people, their eyes flashing with equal parts judgement and lust by turns, and she couldn’t tell which one bothered her more.
Or which one aroused her more.
The combination of excitement and trepidation was beginning to overwhelm her as she continued down the street. When she felt her breath begin to catch at all the warring feelings welling up inside her, she forced herself to walk more slowly, one shaky hand coming up to rest on her heart, her fingertips sliding along the edge of her collar, reminding her who she was and why she was doing this.
Reminding her of her master.
Reminding her that while she could never have done something like this for herself, she could do it for him.
She could be his beautiful, sexy, dirty girl.
She could do it because he wanted her to.
By the time she made it to the train station, the pain in her feet had subsided into a low, deep ache, much like the one she often bore from her master’s spankings, and between that and the constriction of her collar around her neck, she was beginning to truly fall into the headspace she’d just begun to grasp on her way out the door. Slowly, as she walked up to the turnstile, she could feel things growing both sharper and fuzzier in her mind.
In her head, she could hear her master’s voice, calling her a slut as he fucked her into the bed. In the lustful, damning gazes of the men and women around her, Cynthia felt like a slut.
Only, unlike the shameful feeling she had expected to accompany those stares, she felt powerful.
She felt sexy and alive.
She felt like the kind of girl who could not only walk through a crowded train station without panties, but one who could sink to her knees there on the grimy floor and take her master’s cock inside her throat, sucking him down and making him come while all the world looked on.
Emboldened, Cynthia moved through the station with a sense of purpose, her hips swaying and her chest jutting out more proudly. Her hard nipples were increasingly sensitive as they rubbed against her shirt, every motion sending another thrilling rush of warmth to the space between her thighs. When the edge of her skirt caught on the turnstile, she felt the cold rush of air over her ass, and she flushed even more deeply at the knowledge that she was probably flashing everybody. In her head, she could imagine all the people staring at her bare flesh, her eyes darting to the fronts of trousers that were tightening just looking at her.
By the time she reached the platform, her thighs were slick, her sex swollen, and she found herself shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other as she waited for the train. Per her instructions, she stood at the very edge of the platform, right where the last car would soon be pulling in. All around her, people continued to fill in the spaces and, with a tingle of anticipation, she recognised that the train would be full.
That soon, she would be amid a throng of bodies, encased in their heat, with nothing standing in the way of any stranger’s roaming hand and her flesh.
A rush of warm air bombarded her, pulling her from her thoughts as the roar of wheels on steel drowned out all of the surrounding voices. Her skirt was pressed against her thighs, riding up dangerously high with the force of the wind created by the train. As if on cue, the moment the hem drew up to flutter across her pussy, the doors of the last car slid open in front of her, and she was left burning beneath the stare of a half dozen people, all casting lascivious, judging gazes down her form.
Sucking in a deep breath, Cynthia met each pair of eyes and stepped up onto the train. Bodies parted to make way for her, but she still felt her sides being brushed as she reached forward to grab onto the pole. There were a couple of open places to sit in the filling car, but her master had told her to stand, so she stood, her hips pressing to the half wall between the aisle and the first row of seats, her knuckles white as they clung on.
As it roared back to life, the lurching motion of the train sent another thrill through Cynthia’s body, and she moved with it, swaying with every turn, vibrating with the heady rush of turning wheels. At every stop, more and more people filtered into the car, and it wasn’t long until she felt the crush of heat she had anticipated, bodies all around her.
Then there was a touch a hand dragging over fabric, rough fingertips on overheated thighs.
She was ready to panic, her whole body tensing and her mind finally returning to rationality, reminding her that she was not that type of woman. That this was wrong.
But then the man behind her spoke.
‘You must be fucking soaked, dirty girl. I can practically smell you from here.’