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IV
The ride away from the home I had shared with my husband (now Master) seemed like a ride into an entirely new life – a life that, I could already tell, would not involve dinner parties, charity events, or the symphony. I sat in the passenger seat not two feet away from my friend’s husband Dan. The last time I had seen him he and his wife Lisa were with us at the opera, all of us dressed in eveningwear. Now I wore nothing but nipple clamps and a sort of g-string or thong with a butterfly device where the crotch should be. When I sat down in the car, Dan had instructed me to spread my legs. Other than that, we rode in silence.
We had driven perhaps five miles when the butterfly device began to vibrate between my legs – hard. I gasped audibly. “Your master is trying to get your attention,” said Dan. “That device is activated by remote control. It’s one way of demonstrating our control over you in your most intimate places.”
While I heard Dan speak these words, I was unable to focus on them. The insistent buzzing inside my sex overwhelmed my attention. My breath came in increasingly more rapid pants as the remote-controlled butterfly vibrated against my clitoris. After a few minutes, I could feel my body approaching orgasm, and I felt ashamed at my wanton arousal in the presence of my friend. But before I could climax, the vibration abruptly stopped. I sat with my legs splayed lewdly, dripping juices on the car seat, disappointed. “That was also your master trying to get your attention,” Dan said drily.
By now, we had left the suburbs where I lived and had entered a hip neighborhood in the city, an area that a few years earlier had been something of a slum but which had gentrified significantly when the sports arena had been built nearby. The neighborhood consisted mostly of large 19th century brownstones – the kind of houses robber barons lived in once upon a time – that had fallen into disrepair and were now in the process of restoration by the yuppie couples and urban pioneers who had recently moved into the area. As I gradually regained my senses from my masturbatory high (is it masturbation if your Master stimulates you by remote control?), I realized that there were pedestrians on the street – I saw several young couples walking together, some headed to dinner at the restaurants in the neighborhood, a few hand in hand. They could easily see me in my nakedness if they so much as glanced in the car. I blushed all over at the thought.
Dan pulled the car over a few blocks later on Congress Street, in the middle of the block. “You’re expected at 1620 Congress. Just press the intercom button and the gate will open for you.” I looked around, saw that no one was walking on the block just then, and opened the door to step out of the car.
“Slut, your pussy juices have dripped on my seat. You’ll need to clean them off with your tongue,” Dan said, remarkably politely given the nature of the order. Almost as degrading as the order itself was the language he used; as I’ve said, I am a very conservative person by nature, however strange that may sound coming from a woman who has sex in public with strangers. But the order itself was plenty humiliating in itself. Still, I obediently moved to comply. On exiting the passenger door, I knelt down on the sidewalk and carefully licked every inch of the car seat on which I had just been sitting. In doing so, I was on display for any passerby to see; my rear was completely exposed since I was wearing only the butterfly thong, and my breasts swayed beneath me as I lapped up my juices, the silvery chain scraping the ground.
When I finished my task, Dan said goodbye in the most normal, everyday voice you can imagine, and I shut the car door behind me. Still no one on the block, I observed. I looked for the house with 1620 in front of it. That’s when I realized: this was the 1400 block. Dan had dropped me, naked, two blocks away from my destination. Again my breath came in short gasps as I panicked at the thought of wandering nude through an upscale city neighborhood. My only thought was to run for it, since the street was clear at least at that moment. Barefoot, I started off at a spring down the street. The chain between my breasts swung with each stride, pulling my nipples in a way that was both painful and arousing. As I approached the corner, my butterfly started vibrating again, much harder than last time. I fell to the ground, prey to its powerful buzzing. I lay on the sidewalk of a public street, first panicked that I would be seen, but then unable to resist the insistent stimulation of my sex. I opened my legs and closed my eyes as the butterfly induced my natural lubrication and progressed toward orgasm. Still the butterfly vibrated, and as my nipples grew erect with arousal I gripped my breasts and massaged them lewdly. That was it – I could no longer control myself, and I cried out as my orgasm came in waves. For what seemed like five minutes I writhed naked on the street lost in my own sensuality until at last my Master deactivated the remote control and the vibrating stopped. Only then did I open my eyes and see that a small crowd had gathered around me – young couples mostly, a couple of stray businessmen in suits, a homeless man who had come from the park across the street. In front of this crowd of strangers I had sexually climaxed in broad daylight, naked for all to see.
I closed my widespread legs, managed to get to my feet, and ran as fast I could the additional block to the address Dan had given me. I must have looked ridiculous, a 32-year-old woman running naked, breasts bobbing, rear exposed, sexual juices dripping down her leg. But I quickly arrived at the appointed address. Instinctively, I felt more nervous pressing the intercom button at the brownstone mansion than I had pleasuring myself on the sidewalk moments before. But I had been given clear instructions by my Master (or at least by Dan, who I assumed to be acting with the authority of my Master), so I steeled myself for what was to come and rang the bell.
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