The woman’s eyes refused to open, while the light of dawn gently awakened her… what a crazy night, perhaps even more so than usual.
The sheets stuck to her bare thighs as she yawned so hard her jaw nearly fell off. Morning light sliced through the crooked blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled bed where last night’s conquest still slept. She studied her—mouth slack, one freckled arm flung over his face—with the detached curiosity of a biologist examining a pinned specimen.
Estelle—she remembered giving that name to her latest conquest yesterday. So ‘Estelle’ stretched like a cat, her bare skin sliding against the damp sheets.
The young woman lay sprawled beside her, red hair tangled in the pillows. A pink vibrator lay right next to her ass, its surface still slick.
What was her name again? Cindy… Sandra. She’d always had trouble remembering their names after. Not Sandra, rather… Sarah. Bingo, her name was indeed Sarah.
Estelle didn’t bother covering herself as she sat up, letting the sheet pool around her hips. Sarah’s breath hitched in her sleep, her lips parted slightly—the same lips that had been wrapped around Estelle’s clit hours ago. She traced a fingertip down Sarah’s bare shoulder, watching the goosebumps rise in its wake.
A shower will wake me up.
So, she slid from the bed without disturbing the mattress, her bare feet soundless on the carpet, her long hair, as black as a moonless night, covering the tops of her buttocks.
The room smelled like sweat and sex, Sarah’s floral perfume drowned under it. The bedside lamp was still on, casting long shadows across the mess of a waste sack and other sex toys abandoned on the floor.
She stopped in front of the bathroom door when a phone buzzed somewhere in the bedroom just before she entered, blissfully ignoring the ringing.
The shower hissed to life. Estelle stepped under the spray, letting the water run down her back. She tilted her head, catching glimpses of faint bruises along her collarbone in the foggy mirror. Sarah had gotten enthusiastic toward the end. Not that Estelle minded. Last night had been fun—Sarah was eager, loud, and, more importantly, wonderfully easy to manipulate.
She toweled off briskly, squeezing water from her hair before padding back into the bedroom. Sarah hadn’t moved. The engagement ring on the nightstand winked in the lamplight.
Estelle crouched beside Sarah’s discarded purse, her wet hair dripping onto the leather. The phone buzzed again—another message from ‘The love of my life,’ according to the lock screen. His tenth in twenty minutes. Estelle’s lips curled as she swiped up, just enough to glimpse the preview: Sarah, where the fuck are you? Sarah, answer me. Your mother’s panicking. The last one, time-stamped three minutes ago: This isn’t funny anymore.
The screen flashed again—this time, a new photo. A plump blonde woman, her cheeks dimpling as she laughed, clutching a toddler against her hip. BESTIE, the contact screamed in bubbly pink letters. Estelle silenced the call mid-ring so as not to wake the ‘Sleeping Beauty.’
She giggled, thinking of the cartoon. It suited Sarah perfectly right now. Her new conquests often got up very late the first time, after the intense dose of sex she always forced them to.
After moving closer to the bed, Estelle lifted Sarah’s limp hand, her fingers still smelled faintly of her pussy, and pressed the woman’s thumb against the phone’s sensor. The screen blinked awake. Too easy. The wallpaper was a candid shot of Sarah and a random man—the famous ‘The love of my life,’ according to the contact—grinning over champagne flutes, Sarah’s engagement ring glinting between them.
She tapped the voicemail icon and held the phone to her ear. The blonde’s voice trembled through the speaker, breathy with panic. “Sarah, I’m worried sick! Answer me! Did those monsters hurt you?”
Estelle’s lips curved. Monsters? She glanced at Sarah, sprawled boneless across the sheets, her thighs still glistening faintly in the lamplight. The only ‘monster’ here was the aftershocks of pleasure still twitching through Sarah’s body every time she exhaled.
The message crackled on. “Luckily, Tiffany’s fiancé wasn’t there. So we all three went to sleep at her place.” A pause, then softer: “Call me or meet me at the animal shelter as agreed. You’re my son’s godmother, and he needs you to help him choose his dog.”
Animal shelter? A slow, predatory smile spread across her face. She knew that place—a building near the highway, where desperate people went to adopt desperate creatures. Perfect hunting grounds.
She traced a fingertip down Sarah’s slack jaw, imagining the blonde woman standing there with her child, all soft curves and nervous glances.
Her own arousal coiled low in her stomach as she pictured it. The scent of the blonde’s shampoo—a cheap, sweet fragrance, like strawberry syrup—would cling to her hair whenever she would bend down to pet a dog. Then, her hesitant smile when she would recognize her, the way she would nibble her plump lower lip when Estelle would get a little too close.
What had she said her name again? Estelle thought, trying to remember their meeting last night at her bar. Ah yes, Linda.
Oh, she’d make Linda beg as loudly as Sarah. And she’d do it right under her oblivious husband’s nose.
Estelle positioned Sarah’s phone on the nightstand, propping it against the lamp base. She stepped back, letting the morning light gild her body—the sharp angles of her hips, the swell of her breasts, and the dark triangle between her thighs. She arched her back, one hand trailing down her stomach while the other teased her nipple into a stiff peak. The camera shutter clicked. The photo was a masterpiece: her naked dominance framed by Sarah’s limp, sated body in the background, a study in contrast. Even better, you could spot the engagement ring in the foreground. Perfect.
She scrolled through Sarah’s contacts, her pulse quickening when she found ‘BESTIE’ nestled between ‘Best Mom’ and ‘Boss.’ With deliberate precision, she navigated to “Add New Contact,” her fingers hovering for just a second before typing out the title she’d earned—‘Mistress’—in bold letters. She attached the photo, ensuring her ownership was undeniable, and then saved it.
Sarah would discover it soon enough.
With practiced ease, she dialed her own number, letting it ring once before hanging up—now Sarah’s contact lived in her address book too.
As she just finished, the phone chimed. A new text from Linda popped up: Please, Sarah. Just tell me you’re safe.
Estelle’s grin widened as she crafted her reply, thumbs striking keys with predatory precision: Sorry, babe. Got carried away last night 😉 Meet you there in an hour… bring your husband. She watched with delight as Linda’s typing indicator pulsed, then froze mid-response. Let her chew on that.
She deleted Linda’s last call and message before tossing Sarah’s phone onto the rumpled sheets.
Next, a short message for the Sleeping Beauty.
The note was written on the back of a paper napkin—Estelle’s signature, a habit she’d picked up since she became a bartender. She’d swiped a pen from Sarah’s bag. The ink had bled slightly onto the cheap paper as she scribbled the message, her handwriting deliberately messy, as if she’d been in a hurry. Or as if the memory of Sarah’s muffled moans into the pillow the night before had still rattled her.
“Hello, darling. Had to run, but I don’t want you to leave… buttnaked. Look in the closet downstairs. You’ll find a few… options. Pick one that fits.
Oh, the service door is unlocked. Just don’t forget to close it behind you when you leave to return to your Prince Charming.
Kisses, E.”
Estelle smiled, imagining Sarah discovering her personal collection. Of course, they were all worn, and some still carried the scent of their former owners. But that didn’t matter to her, since she knew they wouldn’t come asking for them. She added mischievously.
“P.S. Look at the blue dress. Size 36. This one begged me so hard I almost let her go home with it. Luckily I held firm, because I think it will suit you better.”
She dotted the ‘i’ in ‘kisses’ with a little heart before tucking the napkin under the engagement ring, ensuring Sarah would find it when she finally stirred.
She dressed quickly—black jeans, boots that added two inches to her height, and a tight tank top that clung to her sweat-damp skin. No bra. Let the fabric tease her nipples as she moved. It would keep her sharp. The animal shelter wasn’t far. She stretched, arching her back until her spine cracked. Let the hunt begin.
——————-
“Sarah’s not answering.” Linda’s fingers trembled around her phone, the call going straight to voicemail for the third time. She gnawed at her lower lip, eyes darting between her husband, who was busy wrangling their squirming five-year-old son, and the woman watching them from behind the shelter’s front desk with a label on her chest reading ‘Lilla.’
“Oh, honey,” he said casually. “Sarah’s probably still passed out at Tiffany’s place. You were barely standing when I picked you up this morning.” His laugh was too loud and too forced, and he didn’t notice the tension in Linda’s shoulders as she twisted her wedding ring around her finger.
“Tonight’s the ‘real’ party,” her husband added, grinning as he nudged their son toward the kennel aisles. “If last night was just prep, imagine the state you’ll all be in tomorrow.” He winked, as if this were funny, as if Linda hadn’t spent the last hours staring at her phone with her stomach in knots.
Lilla, the volunteer, saw the exact moment Linda’s patience snapped—her fingers tightened around her phone, her jaw clenched—but then her husband clapped his hands together. “Gotta hit the head,” he announced, already striding toward the restroom without waiting for a response. The dismissal was casual and effortless, the way men do when they’ve stopped considering you might have an opinion. Linda exhaled sharply through her nose, her cheeks flushing pink beneath the shelter’s fluorescent lights.
Unaware of his wife’s frustration, Mike ducked into the hallway, his loafers squeaking against the linoleum—but then he froze. A moan, unmistakable and breathy, leaked from the manageress’s half-open door. He edged closer, curious, and peered through the gap. A woman in her fifties was sprawled across her desk, her skirt hiked up around her hips. Another employee, a younger woman with hair as black as a moonless night, knelt between her thighs, mouth working hungrily. Papers rustled as the older woman arched her back, her fingers gripping the other woman’s hair.
His ears were burning. He had just witnessed something obscene and raw, and yet… he couldn’t help but think about how the woman’s thighs had trembled as he backed away towards the reception, forgetting his urgent need.
“Linda, we muste lea…”
But the phrase died in his throat when he discovered a lovely situation. There was Linda—knees pressed into fresh wood shavings as their son’s delighted shrieks rang against the kennel walls. Six golden furballs tried to climb over Linda’s legs. Linda’s expression had softened—she was smiling now, the tension from earlier momentarily forgotten—and the sight of her like that, happy and flushed, made him hesitate.
“Mike!” she called over her shoulder, “Come look! This little one keeps falling over his own paws!” Their son clapped his hands as one puppy flopped onto its belly with an exaggerated whine. Mike swallowed hard, his pulse still hammering from what he’d seen.
A voice purred behind him, smooth as whiskey. “Adorable, aren’t they?” He whirled around and saw the woman he’d seen lying on a desk just moments before, only inches away. Her perfume, an expensive floral fragrance, washed over him. Her blouse was perfectly buttoned, her hair flawlessly pinned. Only the faintest flush high on her cheeks betrayed what had happened minutes ago. “Forgive me,” she murmured, extending a manicured hand. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Mrs. Lindson, the center’s manageress.”
Linda stood abruptly, dusting her knees. “Oh! Sorry if we’re being too loud.” She gestured helplessly at the puppies, who were now climbing over each other to lick her son’s fingers. “Say hello, Mike,” she prompted, but his throat had gone dry.
They shook hands. “Your wife’s got a gentle touch,” she observed, her gaze sliding toward Linda, who was now cooing at the clumsiest puppy. “I can always tell when someone’s good with their hands.” The double meaning dripped from her lips, and Mike’s pulse jumped.
“Um,” he stammered, but the manageress was already turning toward Linda, who had just joined them. “A puppy for this little angel? You’ve come to the perfect place.” Her smile was practiced and professional.
“Did they fill out the questionnaire?” Mrs. Lindson asked Lilla, who had been watching silently from the edge of the room.
Lilla shook her head. “Not yet.”
And suddenly, another volunteer, the one with hair as black as a moonless night Mike saw previously, appeared with a notepad. Her hips swayed slightly, the fabric of her pencil skirt swaying in the breeze. A scent of jasmine and musk hung in the air, a stark contrast to the fresh floral fragrance of Mrs. Lindson.
Despite her volunteer attire, Linda recognized her immediately. What was she doing here? And, good heavens, where was Sarah when I needed her most?
As if reading her thoughts, Estelle leaned forward slightly and whispered softly, brushing her ear against Linda’s. “You’re blushing. Worried about Sarah, maybe? That’s sweet. But you should be more worried about your panties right now.”
Then she handed her the clipboard, saying louder, “You’ll have to fill this up,” in a drawling, husky voice. “Section C is… important.” Her nail tapped a bolded line: Please disclose any history of aggression in the household.
Mike noticed his wife’s fingers tighten around the pen, just as Estelle stepped back. “Take your time,” she murmured, her breath stirring Linda’s hair. “Some questions require… deeper reflection.”
Linda’s pen scratched violently across the paper. “Done,” she announced, thrusting the clipboard back not to Estelle but at Lilla. Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass. “No aggression here. Unless you count education as aggression.”
Mrs. Lindson’s laughter was low and intimate. “Oh, darling,” she said, plucking the form from Lilla’s hands. “Education can be aggressive but also very pleasant.” Her thumb brushed the edge of the page, right where Linda had pressed down hard enough to tear the paper. “You just have to find the good… motivation.”
Mike’s stomach lurched. He suddenly wished, desperately, that he hadn’t seen what he’d seen. But the image was seared into his brain: the manageress’s thighs trembling, her muffled moans, and the lapping of a tongue devouring her pussy. And now here she was, standing inches from his wife, her gaze lingering a second too long on Linda’s flushed cheeks.
His son tugged at his sleeve. “Daddy, can we take that one?” The puppy in question had flopped onto its back, paws batting at the air. Innocent. They both looked at him with innocent eyes, unaware of the tension that had arisen.
Mrs. Lindson crouched gracefully, her knees barely brushing the floor as she leveled herself with the boy’s eager face. Her fingers reached out to tousle the child’s hair. “Before you pick,” she murmured, her voice honeyed with practiced sweetness, “would you like to take them all for a little walk? Just along the birch path and back. See which one follows you best?” The boy’s eyes lit up, his small hands already reaching for the squirming mass of golden fur.
Mike shifted uncomfortably, his throat working around words that wouldn’t come. The manageress’s gaze—sharp, amused—flicked to him. “Husbands are so ‘fidgety’ during adoptions,” she mused, her lips curving. “Why don’t you check on your son?” It wasn’t a suggestion.
Then, turning to Linda, she declared. “You stay,” she purred. “We have lots of paperwork before the adoption.” The word slithered between them, weighted with something Linda couldn’t name but made her breath catch.
Linda opened her mouth to protest, to chaperone, to do something. But Mrs. Lindson was already ushering the child forward with a gentle nudge.
“Don’t worry, Lilla will supervise,” she assured, though Lilla hadn’t moved from her post by the door.
Mike swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and stumbled after the boy without another glance at his wife. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Linda trapped between Estelle’s smirking lips and Mrs. Lindson’s knowing eyes.
Estelle slid forward, her hips swaying with deliberate laziness, until she stood close enough that Linda could feel the heat radiating off her. “You look tense,” Estelle murmured, her breath skimming Linda’s earlobe. Her fingers trailed down Linda’s spine, light as a whisper, but the contact burned through the thin fabric of her blouse.
Estelle’s hand settled on the small of Linda’s back, guiding her toward the manageress’s office. “Let’s go to Mrs. Lidson’s office,” she murmured. “That way you can see your husband and son through the window.”
Linda spun around, and her voice came out sharper than she intended. “Wait—” Linda’s voice cracked. “Where’s Sarah? What did you—”
Estelle’s lips curved, slow and deliberate, as she pushed her inside and followed her. “Sarah?” she echoed, tilting her head. “Oh, sweetheart, you don’t need to worry about her. She’s probably back with her fiancé by now. The ‘love of her life,’ no?” The last three words dripped with mocking sweetness, her dark eyes glinting as she watched Linda’s breath hitch.
“You—” she started, but Estelle ignored her as she strode toward the desk. Her fingers traced the wood grain of the desk, lingering where the manageress’s thighs had been splayed open not long ago and perched on its edge as if she owned it.
She raised her head. Her gaze was fixed on Linda with the nonchalant dominance of a predator circling its prey, but it was to Mrs. Lindson that she addressed herself. “Go close the door so we can have some peace and quiet,” she said, her voice sharp as a blade.
Mrs. Lindson’s breath hitched before she swallowed hard and dipped her chin. “Yes, Mistress,” she whispered, already turning toward the door.
Estelle’s smirk was a slow, cruel curve. “You’ve forgotten how to behave in front of me.” Linda’s pulse hammered in her throat as Mrs. Lindson’s cheeks darkened, her lips parting around unspoken protests.
Her hands flew to her blouse, fumbling with buttons until the fabric gaped open. She dragged her bra cups down without hesitation, her nipples pebbling under the sudden exposure.
Then, with trembling fingers, the manageress gathered her skirt hem and tucked it into her waistband, exposing bare thighs—and the slick, naked curve of her sex. Linda’s stomach lurched; she hadn’t expected the absence of panties or the way Mrs. Lindson’s skin glistened under the office lights.
“The door doesn’t matter now,” Estelle crooned, sinking onto the edge of the desk with her legs lazily spread. “I want your tongue.” Estelle’s smirk deepened as she crooked a finger, beckoning Mrs. Lindson closer. “Good girl,” she purred as the manageress knelt down. “Show her how I like my bitches.”
Linda couldn’t look away—couldn’t reconcile the stern woman from the lobby with this flushed, panting creature now crawling across the carpet on all fours toward her desk.
She even brought her hand to her mouth as Mrs. Lindson took Estelle’s foot and began licking her calf, slowly moving up toward her knee.
The tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes, mesmerizing Linda. Her knees wobbled—her son’s laughter from outside the window suddenly worlds away—as Mrs. Lindson’s mouth found its mark, her lips sealing around Estelle’s clit with practiced devotion.
Estelle arched into the contact, her hips rolling forward with a sigh, her free hand beckoning Linda closer. “See how eager she is?” Her thumb traced the shell of Linda’s ear, sticky with heat. “Do you want to learn?” A wet pop sounded as Mrs. Lindson pulled back just enough to give them a sly smile. “Want her to teach you how to lick pussy like this?”
Linda’s lips parted. No sound came out. Only the slick, hungry noise of Mrs. Lindson returning to work between Estelle’s thighs answered for her.
Linda tried to detach herself from the scene that fascinated her more than she wanted. Her gaze fell on the window behind the desk. The wet, rhythmic sounds of Mrs. Lindson’s mouth working between Estelle’s thighs now filled the office, mingling with the distant, frantic shouts from outside.
Through the half-open blinds, Linda saw the smallest golden pup streaking toward the parking lot, its leash whipping behind it like a runaway kite string. Mike lunged after it, his loafers skidding on gravel, his panicked “Jesus Christ!” swallowed by the wind. The contrast—their innocence, her racing heart—made her stomach twist.
Linda’s breath hitched as Estelle’s fingers curled possessively around the back of her neck, the pressure just shy of painful. “Poor Husband,” she murmured, dragging her tongue along the shell of Linda’s ear. “Always chasing things he can’t catch.
“Now, eyes on me,” she purred, leaning in until their lips nearly brushed. “Unless you’d prefer to leave now?”
Mrs. Lindson moaned around Estelle’s clitoris, her fingers gently caressing her slick folds as if begging permission to plunge inside. Estelle rewarded her with a sharp tug to her hair, yanking her head back to expose her glistening chin.
“Look at her,” Estelle commanded, tilting Linda’s face down. “She’s so addicted she can’t resist.” The manageress’s eyes fluttered open, glassy with submission, her tongue extending to touch her. Linda’s stomach clenched—part revulsion, part traitorous heat.
Estelle’s fingers tangled in Linda’s hair, wrenching her head down with a sudden, merciless jerk. “Time to learn your first lesson,” she murmured, her voice thick with amusement as Linda gasped—her lips mere inches from Mrs. Lindson’s glistening mouth.
Her hands braced against Estelle’s thighs as she tried to recoil, but Estelle’s grip was iron. “No hiding now,” she crooned, her free hand sliding on Linda’s blouse to pinch a stiffening nipple. The sharp pain made Linda jerk forward—straight into Mrs. Lindson’s waiting mouth. Their lips crashed together, wet and clumsy, the taste of Estelle’s pussy flooding Linda’s senses—musky, salty, filthy.
Outside, the distant yelp of a puppy, her son’s gleeful shrieks, faded into static. The world narrowed to the heat of Estelle’s thigh beneath her palm, the obscene smack of Mrs. Lindson’s lips as she deepened the kiss, licking into Linda’s mouth like she could devour her shame.
Estelle laughed, low and wicked, as Linda’s muffled protests dissolved into shaky breaths. “Good girl,” she purred, releasing Linda’s hair to trail a fingernail down her spine. “Now you know what truly want to please tastes like.”
Mrs. Lindson moaned into the kiss, her hands rising to cup Linda’s face, holding her there as her tongue delved deeper, sharing Estelle’s flavor like a sacrament.
Linda’s thighs pressed together, the friction of her own soaked panties a cruel counterpoint to the humiliation burning through her. Estelle’s fingers found a new spot, this time under her skirt, caressing the damp lace clinging to her. “Look at you,” she taunted, her voice syrup-sweet. “Dripping for a woman you hate.”
Mrs. Lindson broke the kiss with a gasp, her lips swollen, her mascara smudged. She didn’t wipe her chin—just stared up at Estelle, waiting.
Estelle dismissed her with a wave of her hand, and she scrambled back instantly, her knees scraping against the carpet. The older woman’s chest heaved, her blouse still gaping open, her bare thighs trembling as she knelt there like a discarded toy.
Estelle’s grip tightened on Linda’s chin, tilting her face upward with a smirk. “Now,” she murmured, her thumb tracing Linda’s bottom lip, smearing it with the taste of herself. “Show me how you kiss.” Positioning her between her thighs, where Mrs. Lindson had been a moment before.
Estelle’s kiss wasn’t a question—it was conquest. Her lips crashed against Linda’s with bruising force, teeth scraping skin as she pried her mouth open like prying open a locked treasure chest. Linda’s muffled moan was swallowed whole as Estelle’s tongue thrust inside, relentless and invasive, mapping every inch of her mouth with the precision of a general claiming territory.
Her fingers clawed uselessly at Estelle’s shoulders, her knees buckling as the taste of another woman flooded her senses. Estelle’s hands slid down to grip Linda’s hips, yanking her forward until their bodies slammed together. The sharp edge of the desk bit into Linda’s thighs as Estelle ground against her, the friction of their skirts riding up between them.
Linda’s gasp shuddered against Estelle’s mouth as cool air hit her exposed thighs—she hadn’t even registered Mrs. Lindson’s hands slithering beneath her skirt until the elastic of her panties snapped against her knees. The realization should have jolted her into resistance, but her body betrayed her as the older woman peeled the soaked lace down her trembling limbs. The fabric pooled around her ankles, still warm from her own arousal. She even obediently lifted each leg to help Mrs. Lindson grasp them with a sly wink.
Estelle broke the kiss just enough to smirk at Linda’s dazed expression. “No going back now,” she murmured. Mrs. Lindson remained kneeling, this time pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Linda’s thigh, her tongue swiping through the slickness already gathering there.
Linda’s knees buckled—Estelle’s arm snaked around her waist, hauling her upright against the desk as Mrs. Lindson’s lips trailed higher. “She’s starving for you,” Estelle purred. “Enjoy as she ‘worships’ you.”
Linda’s vision blurred as Mrs. Lindson’s nose nudged her dripping folds, then her tongue flattened against her anus in one long, filthy stroke that wrenched a sob from Linda’s throat.
Estelle’s free hand slipped between their bodies, gliding through the mess Mrs. Lindson had made before plunging two fingers inside Linda without warning. Linda’s back arched, her hips jerking forward onto Estelle’s hand, forcing Mrs. Lindson’s voracious mouth to follow. The dual sensation of being filled and devoured short-circuits any coherent thought.
Estelle’s laugh was dark with triumph as she crooked her fingers, scraping against that sweet, spongy spot that made Linda’s toes curl. “God, you’re tight,” she breathed, her lips grazing Linda’s earlobe. “Bet your husband never made you clench like this.”
Their mouths crashed together again, the kiss turning savage and desperate. Their tongues clashed—hot, slick, battling for dominance in a way Linda had never dared with her husband. Estelle’s teeth scraped against her bottom lip, sending a jolt of sharp pleasure-pain straight to her throbbing core. She tasted like salt and sin.
Estelle broke the kiss just long enough to smirk against Linda’s swollen lips. “Fuck, you kiss like a whore,” she breathed, her voice ragged. “All that pent-up hunger—” Her hand slid between Linda’s thighs, fingers gliding effortlessly through her slick folds. “—and you waste it on a man, I’m sure, who can’t even make you come.”
Linda whimpered, her hips jerking forward into Estelle’s touch, her body betraying her with every shuddering gasp. Estelle’s fingers circled her clit with cruel precision, her thumb pressing down just hard enough to make Linda’s vision blur. “Look at you,” Estelle taunted, her breath hot against Linda’s ear. “Dripping all over my fingers while your husband chases puppies like the clueless cuck he is.”
Mrs. Lindson’s muffled moan vibrated against Linda’s inner thigh as the older woman redoubled her efforts, her tongue laving broad strokes through Linda’s dripping folds. The wet, obscene sounds of her devotion filled the office, mingling with Linda’s choked whimpers.
“Those eyes don’t lie. I was right. You are a real whore,” Estelle breathed against her lips, her voice dripping with cruel amusement. “A married little slut who gets off on being degraded.” She punctuated the sentence with a sharp twist of her wrist, her fingers scissoring open Linda’s cunt.
Linda’s back arched even more, her hands flying to grip Estelle’s shoulders as pleasure coiled tight in her belly. She was close—so close—but Estelle withdrew her fingers abruptly, leaving Linda gasping and empty. “Not yet,” Estelle chided, licking Linda’s arousal from her fingers with deliberate slowness. “You don’t get to come until I say so.” She turned her attention to Mrs. Lindson, who was kneeling with her thighs clenched tight. “Stand up,” Estelle ordered, her voice sharp. “And fetch ‘the’ dog leash.” Then, her attention returned to Linda.
“Sweetheart,” Estelle murmured, her lips brushing Linda’s ear in a parody of tenderness, her fingers tracing idle circles on the inside of Linda’s wrist. The contrast between the softness of her voice and the iron grip she had on Linda’s waist was dizzying. “Go to the window for me. Press your pretty face against the glass—I want to see your breath fog it up.” Her thumb stroked the pounding pulse in Linda’s throat. “And tuck your skirt up, just here—” Her hand slid down to Linda’s hip, hiking the fabric until cool air kissed the bare curve of her ass. “So everyone here knows exactly what you are.”
Linda’s knees shook, but she obeyed, stumbling toward the window like a sleepwalker. The glass was cold against her forehead, her palms flattening against the pane as Estelle’s shadow loomed behind her. Through the slats of the blinds, she could see her husband, Mike, kneeling in the gravel, wrestling the squirming golden puppy into a harness. Her son giggled, clapping his hands as the leash tangled around Mike’s ankles. The normality of the situation brought tears to her eyes.
Linda’s fingers trembled as they gathered the hem of her skirt, the fabric slipping through her grasp twice before she managed to hook it into her waistband. She didn’t recognize the woman who stared back at her in the window’s reflection—cheeks flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide with something darker than fear. The realization should have horrified her. Instead, a traitorous throb pulsed between her legs, her panties lost, and her slickness now openly glistening.
Behind her, Mrs. Lindson returned with a leash—not the nylon kind meant for puppies, but a slender, supple thing of braided leather, its clasp glinting like a promise. Estelle took it with a slow, appreciative hum, running the length of it through her fingers before snapping it taut between her hands. The sound cracked through the room like a starting pistol. Linda flinched, her hips jerking forward involuntarily.
Outside, Mike straightened up, the puppy finally leashed. He glanced toward the shelter—toward her—and Linda’s breath hitched. But the blinds were angled just enough to obscure the filth happening inches away. Estelle’s reflection smirked in the glass as she stepped closer, her breasts brushing Linda’s back.
Estelle’s fingers tangled in Linda’s hair, wrenching her head back to expose the frantic pulse in her throat. “Watch them,” she ordered, her other hand sliding between Linda’s thighs from behind, fingers gliding through her slick folds with practiced ease. Linda’s knees buckled, her moan stifled against the glass as Estelle’s thumb circled her clit in slow, taunting strokes.
“Your husband’s right there,” Estelle breathed, her teeth grazing Linda’s earlobe. “One loud scream, and he’d come running. But you won’t, will you?” She suddenly pressed the leash against Linda’s vulva, against that sweet spot that made Linda’s vision splinter.
“Imagine if he saw,” she continued. “His sweet little wife, bent over and begging for it.”
Would he cry? Or would he watch?”
The braided leather was cool against Linda’s burning skin. Estelle dragged the length of it slowly through her slick folds, letting the textured surface catch and tug at her swollen clit in a way that made Linda’s thighs jerk together instinctively. “Oh no,” Estelle tutted, wedging her knee between Linda’s legs to force them apart. “You’ll take what I give you but without a sound… or you’ll be punished.”
The leash was pressed harder, the edge of the clasp biting deliciously into tender flesh as Estelle rocked it back and forth with cruel precision. Linda’s forehead knocked against the windowpane, her breath fogging the glass in ragged bursts. And Estelle tugged again, higher this time, the leather now sawing between Linda’s labia in slow, filthy strokes.
The moan tore from Linda’s throat before she could stifle it.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Estelle murmured against the shell of her ear, her breath hot and mocking. “Did I say you could make noise?” The leash came down across Linda’s bare ass with a crisp crack, the sting blooming bright and sudden across her flesh. Linda bit down on her lower lip hard enough to taste copper, her whole body jerking forward against the window.
Estelle chuckled, low and dark, her free hand smoothing over the reddening stripe she’d just painted across Linda’s skin. “Look at you,” she crooned, pressing the flat of her palm against the heated flesh. “Already arching for the next one.”
She dragged the leash slowly up the inside of Linda’s thigh, letting the cool leather contrast with the feverish heat radiating from Linda’s core. “You like this, don’t you?” Another sharp slap, this time higher—the tip of the leash catching the crease where thigh met ass. Linda’s knees buckled, a punched-out whimper escaping as her nails scrabbled against the glass.
Estelle’s fingers worked with cruel precision, curling inside Linda’s slick heat just enough to tease the swollen spot that made her hips jerk forward—only to retreat the moment Linda’s breath hitched. The leash draped across Linda’s lower back now, its braided leather catching the overhead light as Estelle used it like a painter’s brush.
“Naughty girl, you’ve soiled it,” she murmured, lightly touching the wet lips of Linda’s pussy. “Does your husband know how ‘desperate’ you get?”
The leash snapped against Linda’s inner thigh—not hard enough to bruise, just enough to make her gasp. Estelle’s fingers thrust deeper in response. “You’re so close,” Estelle taunted, her voice syrupy with false sympathy. She withdrew her fingers entirely, holding them up to the light so Linda could see the glistening evidence of her own ruin. “But good girls ask permission.”
The leash looped around Linda’s throat—not tight, just enough to make her pulse hammer against the restraint. Estelle’s fingers dipped inside her again, her thumb pressing hard against Linda’s clit in a rhythm that felt like punishment. The orgasm built like a storm surge, inevitable, cataclysmic.
Linda’s vision whited out at the edges, her body bowing toward the pleasure—until Estelle suddenly choked Linda with the leash, pulling her head back. “Not yet,” she purred, her hand retreating to slap Linda’s inner thigh instead.
Mrs. Lindson knelt beside them, her blouse still wide open, her fingers fluttering frantically between her legs. Estelle glanced sideways at her. “Did I say you could touch yourselves?” The older woman froze, her lips parted in silent protest—until Estelle held out the hand that had been used to masturbate Linda. “Clean it.”
Linda watched with horrified fascination as Mrs. Lindson grasped it with trembling hands, her lips parting instinctively—not in protest, but in eager obedience. The older woman’s tongue slid along the fingers in slow, adoring movements, her eyes closing for a moment as she took them into her mouth to suckle. The sight stirred a fresh wave of desire between Linda’s thighs; her body betrayed her as she gazed longingly at the scene.
Ashamed, Linda closed her eyes as Estelle wiped herself on Mrs. Lindson’s face.
When she opened them again, Estelle was perched on the edge of the desk like a queen on her throne. Her legs were spread wide, her skirt hiked up to reveal her bare twat.
Estelle crooked a finger, beckoning Linda closer. “Lesson two,” she purred, her voice dripping with dark amusement. “How to make me come without using those pretty little hands of yours.” She spread her thighs wider, the scent of her arousal thick in the air. “Bitches don’t walk. Get on your knees and come to me on all fours.”
Estelle watched, her fingers drumming lazily, as Linda inched forward on hands and knees—her skirt still rucked up around her waist, her bare ass exposed.
The carpet burned her palms, each fiber a tiny brand of shame. The leash swung like a pendulum between her breasts, each sway marking the rhythm of her humiliation. The braided leather brushed her nipples through the thin fabric of her blouse, the teasing contact making her breath hitch despite herself.
Estelle’s thighs parted wider, the musky scent of her arousal flooding Linda’s senses as she neared.
“Breathe slowly, then eyes on me,” Estelle said casually, her voice thick with amusement. Linda’s lungs burned as she inhaled, the heady musk of Estelle’s sex drowning her. Then, as commanded, Linda’s gaze flickered upward, past the undone buttons of her blouse, revealing the swell of her breasts, to those eyes that held her captive.
Estelle’s pupils were blown black with lust, her lips slightly parted—but her tone was breezy, conversational, as if they were discussing the weather over cappuccinos. “Where’s your phone, darling?” She tilted her head toward the abandoned purse near the office door. “Is it in your bag?”
The question landed like a slap.
Linda’s throat worked soundlessly for a moment before she managed a shaky nod. “Y-yes,” she whispered, her breath hitching as Estelle’s hand trailed down to cup her chin. The contrast between the filthy position she was in—kneeling between Estelle’s spread thighs, her own skirt still bunched around her waist—and the mundane question made her head spin.
Estelle’s fingers traced idle patterns along Linda’s collarbone, her touch feather-light yet electrifying. “Kneel properly, sweetheart,” she murmured, her voice honeyed with faux sweetness. The leash dangled between them. Linda’s knees ached against the carpet as she adjusted her posture, her thighs trembling as she pressed them tighter together—as if that could hide the slickness still glistening between them.
“Good bitch,” Estelle crooned, her thumb brushing Linda’s bottom lip. “Now hold it out for me. Both hands.” Her tone was casual, almost bored, but the command brooked no disobedience.
Linda’s fingers shook as she lifted the leash, her palms upturned in offering, the leather cool against her hot skin. The position forced her shoulders back, her chest thrust forward in a silent plea for approval. Estelle’s gaze lingered on the way Linda’s blouse was slightly open, the top buttons undone from their earlier struggle.
Estelle didn’t take the leash immediately. Instead, she let Linda stew in the silence, her fingers drumming a slow, taunting rhythm against her own thigh. “You look so pretty like this,” she mused, her voice dripping with amusement. “A perfect little pet. Tell me, darling—do you always follow orders this well?”
Linda’s breath hitched as Estelle leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Or maybe,” Estelle whispered, her breath hot and mocking, “you’re just desperate to be ‘used’ like yesterday.”
Estelle’s fingers curled lazily in the air, the gesture effortless—a queen expecting service. Mrs. Lindson moved like a shadow, her knees whispering across the carpet as she pressed Linda’s phone into Estelle’s palm with both hands, her head bowed.
The phone’s lock screen glowed between Estelle’s fingers—a family photo from last summer, Linda sandwiched between her husband and son, all three grinning under a sunlit pier. Estelle’s thumb hovered over the keypad, her expression softening into something almost gentle.
“Password, darling?” she asked.
Her voice was syrup-sweet, the kind of tone one might use to ask for sugar in their tea.
Linda’s throat tightened: the phone contained all the evidence, however mundane, of her life: shopping lists, photos from her son’s first day of school, and texts from Mike asking her to get milk. Normality rested in Estelle’s palm, and yet, it seemed to her the most damning evidence in the trial of the banality of her life.
Linda’s fingers twitched, still clutching the leash. “I—” Her voice cracked.
“You’re thinking too hard,” she murmured, patting her on the head as if she were reassuring a small wild animal. The sensation shot straight to Linda’s core, her thighs clamping together instinctively. “It’s just four digits, sweetheart. Not your wedding vows.”
The digits of her passcode burned on her tongue as she mechanically recited “1-9-9-8,” her birth year, something Mike teased her for being predictable about.
Estelle tilted her head, the leash swaying between them. “Does hubby check your messages?” she asked conversationally, as if discussing weekend plans. Her thumb stroked the phone’s edge, where a tiny scratch marred the case—a relic from when Linda had dropped it during a playground chase. “Bet he doesn’t.” Her smile widened. “Men never do. They think loyalty’s default.”
Estelle smiled warmly at Linda, the corners of her lips curling in a way that might have been comforting. “Stick out your tongue,” she murmured, her voice soft as a summer breeze. “Like a dog happy to see its master again.”
Linda’s breath stuttered, her pulse fluttering wildly at the base of her throat. The absurdity of the request clashed violently with the slick heat increasing between her thighs. She hesitated, her teeth worrying her lower lip, until Estelle’s eyes hardened imperceptibly. The silent threat sent a shiver down her spine, and slowly, shamefully, Linda obeyed. Her tongue peeked out, pink and uncertain, the tip just brushing her own chin.
Estelle tilted her head, considering. “Wider,” she instructed, her thumb pressing down on the center of Linda’s tongue until it lay flat and helpless. “Now hold it.” The command was casual, but Linda knew better than to disobey. Her jaw ached with the strain, saliva pooling at the corners of her mouth.
Linda’s tongue trembled, especially where Estelle’s thumb had pressed, saliva slipping past her lips as she knelt there—leash in hand, skirt hiked up—and the thought hit her like a freight train: Why am I doing this? Not just the obedience and the humiliating posture, but the way her pussy lips clenched around nothing and the way her breath came in shallow gasps every time Estelle’s gaze flickered down her body. The realization should have horrified her. Instead, a fresh pulse of wetness soaked her inner thighs.
She couldn’t look away from Estelle’s face—those dark, endless eyes that seemed to peel her open layer by layer.
Why? The question screamed again inside her skull even as her body arched slightly forward, yearning. She was a mother. A wife. She’d never—not even with Mike in their wildest newlywed days—let herself be ‘handled’ like this. Yet here she was, knees bruised on cheap office carpet, her panties lost somewhere, trembling because a stranger’s glance had her on the brink of orgasm.
Suddenly, the phone’s camera flashed once, capturing Linda’s flushed cheeks, her parted lips, and the leash still dangling between her trembling hands. The shutter sound was obscenely loud in the thick silence of the office.
Estelle hummed as she reviewed the image, tilting the screen to show Mrs. Lindson first—the older woman’s breath hitched at the sight—before turning it toward Linda. “Look how pretty you are,” she crooned, tracing the edge of the phone down Linda’s heaving chest. The captured image was worse than Linda imagined: her lips parted around silent pleas, her nipples visibly peaked beneath the thin blouse, and the leash draped between her fingers like an offering. The lens’s smear gave everything a hazy, dreamlike quality—as if this degradation was something soft, something beautiful.
Estelle’s fingers danced across Linda’s phone screen with deliberate slowness, savoring each tap as she entered her number. “There,” she murmured, before saving herself as Mistress <3. “Now we’re officially ‘friends.'” The word dripped with venomous sweetness.
Estelle tossed the phone to Mrs. Lindson without looking, her dark eyes locked on Linda’s flushed face. “Call me with this,” she said, her voice casual, as if instructing a secretary to schedule an appointment. The older woman fumbled the catch, the device clattering against the carpet before she scrambled to retrieve it with trembling fingers.
Linda barely registered the noise. Her entire world had narrowed to the sight before her—Estelle’s long fingers parting her own slick folds with deliberate slowness, exposing glistening pink flesh that twitched under Linda’s stunned gaze. The scent, musky, primal, ‘hers,’ hit Linda like a physical blow, her mouth flooding with saliva before she could stop it.
“Lesson two begins,” Estelle murmured, her thumb circling her swollen clit in lazy strokes that made Linda’s own neglected flesh ache in sympathy. “Make me come without using those pretty little hands of yours.” She arched her back slightly, her thighs spreading wider on the desk’s edge. “Bitches don’t get to touch. Only taste.”
Linda moved without even realizing it, as if hypnotized. She wanted it—no, that word wasn’t strong enough… she was burning inside. All the trappings of her good upbringing shattered as her tongue was finally about to taste the forbidden fruit that opened before her. Her knees slid forward on the rough carpet, the friction burning her skin in a way that felt obscenely right. The leash slipped from her fingers, forgotten, as her hands found Estelle’s thighs—warm, trembling slightly with restrained power.
And…
The intercom crackled to life with a burst of static—sharp as a slap—before Lilla’s cheerful voice sliced through the humid air. “We are returning to the front office with their new puppy!” The announcement reverberated off the cheap laminate walls, its chirpy cadence clashing violently with the scene of debauchery frozen mid-breath.
Linda’s tongue hovered a millimeter from Estelle’s glistening folds, her body locked in suspension like a deer in headlights. For one suspended second, the only movement was the slow drip of Linda’s saliva onto Estelle’s inner thigh.
Estelle’s fingers knotted in Linda’s hair—not pulling, just holding as the intercom’s echo faded into silence. Then, with a sigh that bordered on theatrical disappointment, she shoved Linda backward with her knee. Linda’s palms hit the carpet hard as she caught herself.
“Saved by the bell,” Estelle meowed, stretching her arms above her head like a cat waking from a nap. The motion made her blouse ride up, exposing a sliver of toned stomach. She smirked at Linda’s dazed expression, then leaned forward to pat her cheek—once, twice—condescendingly.
“Run along now, darling. Before your husband wonders why his good little wife looks like she’s been fucked stupid. Though I doubt he’d recognize the signs.”
Estelle didn’t move from the desk, her legs still casually spread, her skirt pooled around her hips. She watched Linda with lazy amusement as the blonde struggled to stand, her legs trembling like a newborn fawn’s. The fabric clung awkwardly where her thighs were still damp as her fingers fumbled to fix her skirt.
“You might want to wipe your chin,” she offered sweetly. “And, for God’s sake, fix your hair. You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backward.”
Linda looked at Estelle one last time as she rushed out the door in a mixture of shame and lingering excitement.
——————-
The highway stretched endlessly before them, golden afternoon light painting everything in honeyed hues. Linda leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching the world blur past, all dissolving into streaks of color as if reality itself couldn’t hold its shape anymore. Her son’s laughter bubbled from the backseat, mingling with the puppy’s excited yips as tiny fingers tugged at floppy ears. The sounds should’ve anchored her. Instead, they felt distant, muffled—like listening to life through thick aquarium glass.
Her knees still burned where the carpet had scraped them raw. Mike’s hand settled on her knee, his thumb rubbing absent circles. “You okay?” he murmured, his voice low so their son wouldn’t overhear. “You’ve been quiet since we left.”
Linda forced a smile, her fingers tightening around the phone in her lap. “Just tired,” she lied, the words ash-dry in her throat.
The vibration against her thigh startled her—an electric jolt that shot straight to her already frayed nerves. Linda’s fingers twitched around the phone, her pulse kicking violently against her throat as the screen illuminated with a single, damning notification:
1 New Message from Mistress <3
Mike glanced over, his brows knitting as her breath hitched audibly. “Everything alright?”
Linda thumbed the screen off too quickly, her knuckles whitening around the device. “J-just Sarah,” she stammered, tucking the phone beneath her thigh as if it might combust. The lie tasted bitter, metallic—worse than the phantom press of Estelle’s fingers still branding her skin.
Mike chuckled. “See? Told you Sarah was fine,” he said, tapping the steering wheel with smug satisfaction. “Probably just got caught up with wedding prep stuff.” His fingers drummed to the rhythm of some inane radio jingle, oblivious to the way Linda’s breath ragged as her phone screen illuminated again.
The text burned against her retinas: Tomorrow evening at 7 p.m. at the restaurant Le Chic. Prepare yourself the way I like my bitches, or you’ll be punished. The heart emoji winked mockingly beneath the words. Linda’s thighs pressed together instinctively, the ghost of Estelle’s leash still prickling across her skin.
“You always overthink things,” Mike continued, reaching over to squeeze her knee—a patronizing pat that made her teeth clench. Behind them, her son squealed as the puppy licked his face. The sounds blurred into white noise beneath the roaring in Linda’s ears.
Her thumb trembled over the screen. She should delete it. Block the number. Throw the phone out the window and watch it shatter against the asphalt. Instead, her fingers worked to respond.
Estelle’s lips curled as Linda’s typing bubble appeared—hesitant at first, then persistent. One notification popped up, then another: tentative, pleading words Linda would never say aloud. Estelle didn’t bother reading them. The submission was in the act itself; the shattered resistance was more intoxicating than any groveling text.
“Good,” she murmured. “Just the last piece of the puzzle.”
Her thumb swiped effortlessly to another contact. Sarah’s photo from her contacts, taken this morning, appeared. Estelle’s fingers flew across the keyboard, sending the identical demand: Tomorrow evening at 7 p.m. at Le Chic. Come to be my slave, or don’t come at all. No heart emoji this time—just a period. Final. Absolute.
Duty done, Estelle’s fingers tightened in Lilla’s hair as the younger woman’s tongue flicked too roughly against her clit. “Gently,” she hissed, yanking Lilla’s head back just enough to make her whimper. The vibrations of the sound traveled straight to Estelle’s throbbing core, and she smirked at the way Lilla’s eyelashes fluttered—like she couldn’t decide whether to apologize or beg for more.
Behind Lilla, Madame Lindson’s strap-on pistoned in and out of Lilla’s dripping cunt with the precision of a metronome, the silicone shaft glistening with each withdrawal. The older woman’s breath came in ragged grunts, her hips slapping against Lilla’s ass with enough force to leave bruises.
Lilla’s tongue returned to its task, this time with featherlight strokes that made Estelle’s toes curl. “Better,” Estelle purred, her fingers relaxing slightly in Lilla’s hair. The praise sent a visible shudder through the younger woman, her lips parting in a soundless moan as she redoubled her efforts, her tongue tracing intricate patterns around Estelle’s swollen clit.
