Slave Sara\'s Awakening

Slave Sara

Chapter Two

 

            Even though I’ve never actually followed through with one of the dirty encounters I crave, I’m addicted to the humiliation my little dress-up episodes bring.  Like a good slut, I keep coming back for more.

            I kept strutting on the sidewalks by my apartment, getting a small but electrifying taste of the attention I craved.  I named my slut-hooker persona Slave Sara, and it wasn’t long before I expanded Sara’s wardrobe beyond underwear.

            On my way back from one of my semi-annual road trips home, I stopped at one of several small XXX shops on the side of the Interstate.  This one happened to be in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but a gas station across the way.  I purchased a pair of black pantyhose with the crotch and the sides cut out, so the waist-high section was connected to the stocking sections only by three-inch-thick garter-like strips of nylon on the front of the thigh and across the middle of each ass cheek. I also bought a latex thong and a matching latex miniskirt.  The girl at the counter asked if they were for my girlfriend.  Caught a little off guard, I said yes, but to this day I regret not having said, “No actually, they’re for me.  I like to dress up like a whore and walk the streetcorners.”  It was the truth, after all.

            In the store’s parking lot, I got into my rental car and immediately stripped so Slave Sara could don her newest finery.  I sorely lamented not having a headpiece, bra, or appropriate slutty shoes, but my Mistress’ voice spoke up insidiously from the back of my mind – “All the more humiliating for you, then, slave!”  You see, I had already decided that the gas station across the way would be a perfect target.  With my skirt, hose, and leather jacket on, I pulled up to the pump and, ignoring the pay at the pump card slot, strode boldly through the door and slapped a $20 on the counter.  I meekly asked for the gasoline, barely making eye contact with the fairly attractive young woman behind the register (if this were fiction, she would be a stunning beauty with a hidden penchant for S&M – at a midnight gas pump in the middle of nowhere, yeah right!).  She took the bill with a look I will never forget.  It wasn’t shock or disgust, but a kind of amused, mildly surprised almost-smile.  As I spun and wagged my hips toward the door, I saw the two other patrons – men both – positively staring out of the corner of my eye.  I had parked my rental so that the pump concealed as little of it as possible, and as the pump ran, I gave the windshield a slow, detailed scrub with one of those little squeegee / sponges they have everywhere.  I did it all from the passenger side of the car, and when
I felt the skin-tight latex start to rise above the crescent of my taut ass cheeks, I tugged it a little higher instead of pulling it down and bent over the car at an even more exaggerated angle.  Finally, as I replaced the gas nozzle, I flipped the miniskirt up over my hips and hiked the jacket, exposing my new thong as I sauntered (in no hurry) around the car, the long (and plainly seeable) way.

            After I made it home around midnight, I completed the outfit, using a scarf and winter cap to give the illusion of hair and adding my bra, padding, the black dog collar with a small gold lock dangling from the O ring at my throat, and strapping on my roommate’s high heels.  I drove my car up to the city and parked along one of the less-than-reputable streets in the bad part of town, and every time headlights approached I stepped out and gave my best hooker strut down the sidewalk.  Since I was on the wrong side of the tracks and tricked out in a positively scandalous manner, I got plenty of play, and it wasn’t long before a car came around into the lot where my rental was.  It parked about twenty feet away and idled.  I strutted over to my own car, giving the man (men?) a little show as I wiggled my ass and bent over the hood.  The car honked lightly, and I knew the driver wanted me to come over when the window rolled down and he actually said it.  I couldn’t believe it!  I had actually been propositioned as a hooker!  Of course I couldn’t do it – my voice, my fake hair, my cock would give me away.  I just gave them a show, sliding out of the miniskirt and really shaking my ass, dipping and pumping my hips suggestively, until the car actually started toward mine.  Then I scampered around to the driver’s side and drove off, terrified of what might happen if they found me out.  That night, I beat off desperately, overawed that it had worked, that I had proven to myself that I could be (at least to a point) the kind of kinky, scantily-clad woman that all men wanted, deep down if nowhere else.

            My second skirt I bought as part of an all-out slut-spree at a posh mall up in the city.  I started with five-for-twenty Victoria’s Secret thongs, great for their smooth cotton, alluring cut, and that embroidered hem advertising to the whole mall who gave this boy his panties.  After that I moved to the department stores, working through a mountain of Labor Day sale shoe racks until I found a very affordable pair of clear platform stilettos with black, toeless insteps and shiny buckles.  I also found a black buckle-back g-string with a shiny pink plastic T binding the three strings in back – very naughty!  The skirt was a short, pleated jean skirt which came completely open when its two hip buttons were undone.  A black women’s undershirt sealed the deal, and I snuck into an empty area of the mall that was under construction and mostly inaccessible to change.  The feel of the skirt swishing around my thighs – so much easier to flip up with even just a strong breeze, unlike the latex mini – combined with the smooth embrace of the crotchless nylon stockings and the tight hug of the stilettos’ straps around my heels to send me into a state of ecstatic anticipation.

            I didn’t have the courage to walk back out to my car in my new Sara outfit, to scamper out in broad daylight for all the world to see.  Little did I know, it was just a matter of time.

            That evening, I parked my car behind a nightclub near campus and changed into Sara’s clothes.  I had driven through the alley, which bordered the club on one side and was open to an apartment complex on the other, several times that week.  A battered but intact sofa was out beside the dumpster, and I was spontaneously inspired to perform an act of public debasement on it.  I had recently invented a little slave ritual I think of as “the call”, and the alley, away from the main street but tantalizingly subject to sudden habitation from several angles, provided a perfect playground.

            I first used the Call when I was back in my hometown visiting.  I was out in a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, with nipple clamps in my pocket and – you guessed it – a cheap magenta nylon thong from Wal-Mart snug between my cheeks.  I liked to walk through the deserted new sections of the neighborhood, the ones with just pavement and house frames, with my outerwear off and my slutty underwear on display.  This time, I knelt down on one of those big cement culverts that punctuate the “streambeds” that run through residential areas for rain overflow.  The hump of the culvert was the only thing separating me from inhabited front yards, and as I knelt there in the broad daylight, with my sweats around my ankles and my knees spread wide, the Call first occurred to me.  I clamped the clothespins tightly over my grateful nipples, reached into my panties and stroked myself to attention, and then bent over and spanked myself – as hard as I could – five times on each cheek.  As the considerable echoes of the spanking died away, I stroked my hard cock and screamed – not yelled, screamed like the shameless bitch I was – “MISTRESS!”  I thought of all those suit-and-tie folks who would look up from their yard work and wonder what they had just heard, and it took a sizeable amount of willpower not to just keep stroking and spew my load on the sunlit concrete then and there.

            Ever since then, the Call has been my personal form of exhibitionism, just one more tool in my Mistress’ collection to keep slave Sara humiliated and objectified.  I’ve used it all over town, mostly at night, and the sofa behind the club was a great target.  In a dark grey VS thong, crotchless black pantyhose, my jean skirt, new heels, collar, and nothing else, I stepped from my car and walked down the short alley to the sofa.  My stilettos clicked loudly against the pavement, and I had to force myself to walk slowly, to savor the humiliation, the wind against my bare chest, my legs, up my skirt.  It was still twilight and there was plenty of visibility.  Short of breath, I fell to my knees on the sofa, bent over, and flipped the skirt up over my ass and stroked my cock.  I fantasized about two bouncers that came out back to smoke and found me there, thinking that they would push me down onto all fours on the asphalt; one of them would flip my skirt up, pull my panties down, and slip inside me from behind, and the other would lean back on the sofa, quietly smoking his cigarette while I smoked his cock noisily, the moans from my ass-fucking muffled by his shaft.

            Of course nobody came out of the club, but the sofa was right in front of the back door, and anyone inside surely heard the ten loud slaps as I spanked myself slowly.  I reached around to the front and undid the two skirt buttons on the waistband:  the thin layer of jean slid off my hips onto the cushions.  I was nervous, and it showed in my shy cock, but I diligently stroked it back to attention and hollered, “Mistress!!” as loud as I could, completing the wanton display.  Then I wrapped the skirt back around my waist, fastening it and straightening my nylons, once again forcing myself not to rush.  With my cock tucked back into my thong, I strutted from the alley and back to the safety of my car.

            Sara wasn’t done for the night, though.  Going out in public in the skirt and high heels was a new kind of high, and I was determined to perform the Call elsewhere.  After dark, I dressed vanilla, packed Sara’s outfit in a bag, and went to the local Christie’s Toy Box.  If you don’t have Christie’s where you are, I’m sure you can guess what kind of shop it is.  I bought a set of anal beads and some lube, and then parked across the street from the local high school.  Tricked out in the pink buckle-back thong, jean skirt, padded bra, stilettos and collar, I snuck into the football field enclosure and went to the track that runs around the field.  I stripped down to the thong, and then pulled it aside and slipped the anal beads into my virgin asshole.  The beads were the kind that taper down from large to small in a gentle curve, not on a string.  There were ten, from marble-sized at the tail to just under golf ball-sized at the safety ring.  On my way to the school, I had stopped over at the skating rink and played with the beads a little, dripping lube onto the beads and my asshole, begging my Mistress for four, then five, then six of the blue jelly spheres, working them slowly in and out.  Now I knelt in the soft grass of the football field, planted one had on the turf and positioned the anal beads at my ass in the other, and arched my back in preparation for the whole curve.  I begged my Mistress out loud, wagging my ass and panting shamelessly as she allowed me one ball at a time.  I felt my tight little nether-mouth gape and slide back over each smooth bead, and the tickle of the curve’s tip inside of my ass, so deep.  I grunted softly as the last one slid home, leaving only the safety ring and a slow trickle of warm lube against the back of my balls.

            Then I slipped the thong back into place, clenched my cheeks, and ran a lap around the track.  When I was done, I dropped to my knees, completely naked save for a naughty pink thong and ten anal beads, and performed the Call.  As I called, I tugged on the safety ring and expelled the whole curve of beads in a slick buzz of pleasure.  The sensation of the balls slipping out of my tight ass is something I’ll never forget.

            It was past midnight after before my Mistress let me come.  I drove back to the skating rink and park back from the road.  The rink has one flat, bare side facing a fairly busy road south of campus, the same road that the club (with the sofa) faces.  At night, the twenty or so yards of parking lot between this side of the building and the street are completely empty, and the light brick wall is lit in one spot by a bright security light with a shade over it, so there’s a single well-lit cone of light against the building’s side.  Clad in just the skirt, VS thong, and heels, I snuck around behind the building and slipped along the dark wall toward the spotlight.  I knelt right beneath the light, stroked myself to attention, and slowly spanked myself.  My heart went faster with every huge echo that blasted off the bare wall, across the concrete to the apartment complex across the street.

After my spanking, I pulled the skirt open and tossed it out to the side.  I put one hand on the dirty wall and spread my legs wide, tugging my cock out of the soaked front of my panties with the other.  I came before my cock was even fully hard again, and as I turned around to gather up my skirt, I saw two silhouettes across the street in the apartment complex.  They were headed toward me.  Even as I buttoned the skirt back into place, they started to cross the street.  I could hear their masculine voices, but couldn’t make out words.  I trotted back to my car as fast as I could, and when I emerged around the far corner of the building, I could see them standing where I had performed my little whore routine.  I drove away, terrified by what might happen if they caught me and my cock already stiffening at the very same thoughts.

 

Of course Sara has come quite far since then, but the story is a long one, and tonight is one of the rare nights when my roommate isn’t home and my significant other is busy all night, so I think Sara is going up to the city to do a little shopping.  I have a little game I like to play, you see.  I bought a deck of very hot Betty Page playing cards from Hot Topic a while back, and I use them to determine how depraved I’m going to be on any given night.  If Sara’s feeling playful, I’ll set up some choices, like I’m either going to just walk the sidewalks for a little while or I’m going downtown to put in a hard night’s streetwalking.  Then I’ll draw a card from the deck; if it’s red, I’ll to the more tame, vanilla choice – if it’s black, I’ll take the more risky way.  Today, I’m drawing to see if I can get a black card to go up to the city in full slut-drag and buy more anal toys from the big Christie’s superstore, and then flaunt my latest tart outfit all over the worst parts of town.  The game today is that I have to “earn” the right to draw a card.  Earlier, I went for a short run with my hot pink lacey VS t-back peeking out from above my running pants, and that earned me one card, but it was red – the two of diamonds.  Now, once I finish my homework – this chapter of Slave Sara – like a good little slave, I’ll earn another draw.  If I keep getting red, I’ll just have to keep performing for my Mistress....

I’m wearing the hot pink thong in question now, in fact, along with my long redheaded wig and a thick leather cockring that jingles as I play with myself.  Periodically, as I wrote this chapter, I came close to coming, and as the pre-come built up and began to drip from my cock, my Mistress commanded me to roll onto my shoulders, position my hips above my upturned face, and squeeze the head of my cock until a fat, salty drop of pre-come fell onto my outstretched tongue.  I’ve been savoring those treats all night, wishing I had a real cock (like yours? ;) ) to gag on, knowing that sooner or later I’ll be naughty enough that I’ll draw a black Betty Page and get to go out....

As always, please e-mail me at sissy_slave_Sara@hotmail.com with feedback, questions, ideas, requests, commands, photos, anything.  I’d love to meet someone who knew how to push me around, or at least someone who had a good idea for Sara to try.  If I do what you suggest (or order) to me, I promise I’ll write about it.  That’s the whole idea, after all.  Until next time.