For the record, we did wear masks on the bus, I didn't belabor the point, but we are both grown women with a sense of responsibility and would not endanger others by getting on a bus during Covid without our masks. The fact it hid my face may have increased my boldness a bit, but I won't swear to it.
When My Lady decides we are going on an outing together, her instructions are very clear, as she understands that I am easily overcome and frequently will go too far if not given clear and precise directions. My own nature being very conservative in dress and deportment, the fact that I can’t seem to find a happy medium between frigid and crawling naked slave girl is something that I swear will give My Lady stress lines around her eyes.
We are going to the beach. We aren’t bringing swimwear, because we are going for a nice romantic picnic. We are to take the bus, because she has decided we will enjoy the morning sun and relax with some ciders, without worrying about how many we drink, and possible roadside sobriety tests.
Her instructions as to my dress were quite simple. I was to wear white thigh high stockings, the better to showcase the shoes she had bought me. The shoes are simple black dress shoes with a minimal heel and an almost 1950’s era proper housewife tone, that makes the simple steel strap, evocative of leg cuffs, seem all the more jarring. A proper housewife, or a collared and cuffed slave?
I was to wear the loose blue skirt she likes so much, mostly because of the way it adheres to me like so much body paint when the wind whips up, yet outwardly looks so very proper. I was to wear the raw silk crème blouse with the bone toggles. It was a fashion throwback to the 1960’s, like something off a campy movie of that era, somewhere between sophisticated and barbarian in that cheerful unconcern of an age of sexual boundary pushing. It was something of a daring garment as the smaller number of larger buttons allowed the blouse to gape when I moved and went from proper to serious cleavage in one button, and outright display with two. The raw silk was itself quite good at concealing and revealing at the same time as it showed contours perfectly while technically being totally opaque to outside eyes.
My bra choice was, well when you are 48G you get what you get. In my case, they were a choice between crème, and white, so I went with crème. For panties, I left them in the drawer, My Lady wants me to be aware that I am open to her touch at all times; almost as much as I want to demonstrate that.
I was finally going to get to use the basket I had broken down and ordered online. You do not want to know what it cost! I buy very little for myself. I always put my daughters and my husband first, but it was only when My Lady took ownership of me that I ever dared to dream of buying something that I wanted. Of course, that I wanted to use it to serve My Lady made it alright.
I know My Lady finds it endlessly amusing that I am as she puts it, “the most domesticated pet” a woman can own. I love pampering her. The act of preparing food for her, the time I spend in making sure everything is presented properly, the care in what it is served on, the very act of serving it to her, and cleaning up after her are to me acts of devotion and love.
How many women can say that they can feel their temperature begin to rise in the bits the lack of underwear and breezy blue summer skirt should leave pleasantly cool because they are cutting the crusts off a selection of sandwiches, preparing containers of fresh strawberries and whipping up fresh whip crème. Adding some baby carrots and celery sticks to go with the dip, and a selection of cheeses and olives for a nice lazy picnic, I decide there is no room for the cider, and will have to bring a much less picturesque but decidedly functional second cooler.
I am early to the bus stop, waving two buses past as I utterly fail at being able to resist coming early on the off chance that My Lady might be running early. I should say that as a devoted submissive it is not my place to make My Lady wait, but I won’t lie to her. If the only part of her I can have is waiting like a desperate puppy for my owner to come home, then I will be that puppy, tail wagging, begging at the door because there is NO better use of my time until she is with me.
She shakes her head when I do this, I don’t know whether it is in amusement or just resignation that some things just can’t seem to be trained out of me.
My Lady arrived at the bus stop as two younger men (skinny one in a Poundland shirt, and one in some sort of high vis vest) had been trying and failing to chat me up. I pushed between them, forgetting in my haste that the picnic basket over one shoulder and the cooler over the other made me a bit wider than usual, and pushing the skinnier lad into stepping off the curb to keep from landing on his arse.
My Lady reached up and cupped my face. I cupped her hands and rubbed my cheek into her hand like a kitten.
“fuckin’ dykes!” I heard the somewhat overweight boy who hadn’t been pushed into the street complain, but in My Lady’s presence I can think of few higher titles to aspire to.
When we boarded the bus, My Lady directed me to move to the top deck. I carried the bags in front of me as the aisles are narrow and the stairs worse, climbing ahead of My Lady. I could feel her raising my skirt to check the no panty rule was being obeyed and heard some sniggering behind me as the skinnier fellow from the bus stop (in his black Poundland shirt) was apparently following to enjoy the show.
Moving to the back of the bus, we sat on one side, My Lady in the corner, and me on the seat by the aisle. I was reasonably concealed from directly ahead, but those in the first few seats on the opposite side could, if they troubled to look back, see us.
There were two Pakistani twentysomething girls with pretty gold nose rings chatting and typing madly on their phones, an older woman deeply ensconced in her book, and of course our Poundland lad who sat sideways in his seat, openly leering at us in the back.
I set the two picnic baskets on the ground so I would not block a seat, and My Lady looked out the window, her eyes hidden behind large very dark glasses, hair half covered with a scarf against the morning wind. She was the very picture of propriety, unless you were watching her left hand.
Slowly trailing up my leg from below my knee, dragging my skirt along with it. She traced the inner arch of my calf to my knee. I moaned softly, my eyes going wide, my face flushing and my breathing starting to speed up.
“I do like you in stockings. They suit your nature, a lot more of the desperate little school girl than proper little teacher in you than your students would think. Isn’t there Jan?” My Lady asked, stroking the inside of my knee and feeling me spread my legs, desperate for her to explore farther.
Poundland lad was chuckling as he watched, his grin showing that he was planning on making whatever happened part of his spank bank as he pulled out his phone. The two Pakistani girls were looking at his face and beginning to glance back over their shoulders at us. I don’t think they yet noticed what was going on.
My Lady was musing to herself, almost quietly, certainly not loud enough to be heard over the bus from anywhere beyond the next few rows of seats. “Stockings yes, but did you heed my instructions. I did specify thigh highs, without stays, and certainly nothing so troublesome as pantyhose. I trust you obeyed me pet?”
I clutched my hands to my skirts at my hips, needing to keep them busy, but unwilling to stop you as you explored what was yours, what I offered, what I begged you to take. “Thigh highs, My Lady!” I squeaked, not as quietly as I should have, because you had trailed your fingers past the thicker band at the top and now grazed them along the pale white flesh of my inner thigh. I arched my back and spread my legs wider, allowing you access.
I wondered how much was visible as you dragged my skirt up as your hand quested higher. The two Pakistani young women were now giggling and whispering to each other as they turned to take in the show as well.
I felt your fingers reach up higher, running your fingers over my sex the way an owner would casually stroke her cat while she thought of other things. “Mmmm, good pet. No panties for sluts. When I feel like petting what is mine I don’t need obstructions.”
I was biting my lip, trying to keep my composure, but you were enjoying humiliating me in front of the men and women on the bus as a demonstration of your power over me. I knew it, and revelled in it. Let them see your power, let them see your unquestionable ownership of me, let them see you as I see you. As much as you were enjoying your show of control over me, I was enjoying it a hundred-fold more.
My Lady finally turned, no longer pretending disinterest now I could see the smile upon her face, the happy smile of a cat that has a pretty bird pinned beneath her claws. She looked at my face, flushed and mouth gaping like a fish out of water as I tried to keep in the noises I needed to make, took in my heaving chest as I panted like a dog on a hot day, and decided to up the ante.
“You look hot pet, I think you need some air.” My Lady said as she unbuttoned three of the four bone toggles from my blouse, going from below the throat, to open to the naval. Sliding her right hand into my blouse, she began to rub and tweak my left breast, under the blouse.
I was doing my best to hold it together until the bus hit the curb coming into a stop and the heavy rocking turned my ladies teasing touches to my clit into enough solid pressure to trigger what she had been keeping me on the edge of. I came loudly.
“Oh my god, get a room.” The one Pakistani woman laughed, the other one just checked her phone to make sure she got it all.
My Lady withdrew her hands and chuckling softly instructed me “Straighten up pet, we have a long way before the beach.” I put myself back together again, but left my blouse unbuttoned to the bottom, because My Lady shook her head when I went to refasten the buttons. My skirt was pulled down and by the time everyone had shuffled out from the tube station stop I was almost the picture of decorum.
The beach was a bit of a trek from the bus stop. Low hillocks covered with grasses oversaw a nice golden strand. The beach wasn’t as popular with bathers as the shore itself was rocky with lots of shells and sea life, but it was very picturesque.
My Lady had quite a heavy plaid blanket to lay out upon the beach for us. It unfolded a long way and gave us a sand free platform where we could spread out our picnic and ourselves to enjoy the morning sun. It was a bit early for most beach goers, being not yet ten, but the summer sun was working its magic to dispel the chill in the air, without blasting down hot enough to turn a redhead like me into a bad lobster impression.
I laid out the spread from the picnic basket. My Lady’s amused snort at the China secured to the top of the picnic basket expressed her opinion on wasting time and money on fancy over functional, and for anyone else I would agree. My one spot of rebellion is that I do believe My Lady deserves the finest things, even if she finds such ostentation a bit foolish.
I take pleasure in the happy sounds she makes as she begins to nibble at the selection of food I have prepared. I pour our ciders into wine glasses as I endure another gentle rebuke from My Lady.
“Jan, I can drink from a bottle you know. You didn’t have to bring glasses.” She said, but any fear of punishment melted when she tucked a runaway wisp of hair from in front of my eyes where the breeze had carried it and back behind my ear. Her hand strayed down from my ear and traced my neck in a sort of lazy statement of ownership.
I tried to remember to breathe as I focused my entire awareness on the centimetre of skin beneath her finger, closing my eyes to fill my every focus on her touch. She chuckled lazily, enjoying my thoughtless submission to her touch, as much as the thoughtful submission of my picnic preparations.
“The cider needs something.” My Lady said whimsically. She took a strawberry, dipped it in the whipped cream and held it to my mouth. Opening my mouth like a baby bird, I let her feed me the strawberry. As I chewed and swallowed, My Lady took a sip of her cider, then leaned in and kissed me hard.
The cider in her mouth entered mine with her thrusting tongue. The cider merged with the sweetness of the strawberries and whipped crème, softening the slight tartness of the cider, and I lost myself in the experience as our tongues twined and we savoured the taste of each other.
Breaking our kiss, My Lady smiled, glanced down at the strawberries and told me. “Your turn.”
I picked up a nice ripe strawberry, the crowns already cut off by me, and swirled it in the whip crème. Holding it to My Lady’s mouth, I savoured the vision of her darkly painted lips closing over my fingers. Feeling her mouth take my finger tips and the strawberry into her mouth, her tongue swirling around them, I felt white fire blast along my nerves and was sure I had goosebumps I could not blame on a breeze that was too warm for such a reaction.
Taking a sip of cider, I kissed My Lady hard. It is not often she lets me play the aggressor, and I enjoyed sliding my hand behind her neck and claiming her mouth, even for an instant. The blend of flavours washed over me, it really was quite pleasant, and I felt My Lady’s mouth yielding to my tongue, then her own first teasing, then fencing with my own as she first welcomed me to her mouth then thrust into my own.
I really couldn’t say how long we sat upon the blanket on the beach, feeding each other, laughing, and me gushing praise at her while she expressed the utmost patience at my occasional lack of decorum and frequent overly enthusiastic responses.
She had me unfasten my bra, and place it in the picnic basket. Having me kneel astride her leg, she had me offer her my breasts one at a time, while she circled my nipples with whip crème covered strawberries. She would take first the strawberry, then the nipple into her mouth, enjoying everything that I offered to her with the unhurried patience of a natural dominant. She was in no rush, as I was hers completely and she had all the time in the world to enjoy.
My Lady had allowed me to undo her blouse so that I could cup and caress her breasts, having undone the front clasp bra she was wearing. While my own breasts are the size that work best in cartoons or porn movies, hers are the kind you see on marble statues of goddesses, and pictures of historic beauties of more civilized ages. While her interest makes me feel less like a cow and more like a slut, she can never look anything less than the Great Lady, even though she puts on no pretentions or airs.
I was gasping as My Lady pinched hard my left nipple as she sucked and lightly bit my right. Her face was flushed and her voice was low and throbbing with her own need now leaking through. There is nothing, absolutely nothing that honours a slave more than the open desire, open need of their owner for their slave. It is far headier than the cider, far more potent than any drug.
“Now pet, time you ate your dessert.” My Lady said, placing her hand on my throat and pulling me down.
I slid off her leg and shuffled down the blanket, breasts swinging free of my gaping blouse and grabbed My Lady’s skirt as she placed her hands on the blanket and raised her cute little bum in the air for me to pull her skirt totally out of the way.
I dived upon her beautiful pussy like a stooping falcon. I can never fathom the desire that some people have for totally shaved pussies. I don’t want to be nose to anything that reminds me of what I found in my daughter’s diapers. My Lady has a woman’s vagina, not a child’s and it bears the dark auburn of her locks in a wild and curly promise of delights to earthy and wild for young girls to understand or survive.
I cover her thighs, her mound, with kisses. I kiss and lick the hollows at her hips, and down the line to her thighs. I drink in the scent and taste of her skin, for I do not often get the chance to see her glory in the full sunlight of a summer’s day.
I kiss and lick gently all around her outer lips, letting my tongue trace and tease her as I test my own resolve, teasing myself as much as My Lady. She makes a sound somewhere between a moan and purr as I begin to trace inside her lips, then plant a gentle kiss at the clit that only now begins to tease itself from the opening folds of this most perfect flower.
As a flower opens its petals to the sun, so did My Lady slowly open to my tongue. My teasing fingers stroked the tender flesh beside, brushing beside but never touching her clit as I worked my tongue deeper as the wetness of my mouth met the growing wetness of My Lady’s gentle mystery.
I slowly penetrated her depths with my tongue, glorying in the taste of her, growing drunk on it. Losing myself and beginning to make noises of my own somewhere between the whining of a puppy and growling of a hungry dog.
A finger carefully trimmed replaced my tongue as at last I brought my lips up to claim My Lady’s clit as I felt her legs bend and hips shift up to increase my access and push into my face. Lazily, she dropped one leg over my shoulders, claiming me for any passer’s by to see, and for me to always remember.
I felt her right hand come down and press onto my head, pulling me into her, and a glance told me her other hand was busy inside her open blouse. My Lady has far more control that I do, and three times when she was close, she pulled me by my hair off until the quaking of her belly and rocking of her hips showed she had withdrawn from the edge, then let me go back to driving her again towards it.
I admire My Lady for her control, as I yield myself utterly to it. Three times she held herself on the edge, and pulled me back like a dog on a leash from the last lick to send her over. Three times she held me back as I lunged and pulled, desperate to know her completion.
The forth time she dropped both hands to my head and drove her fingers like iron claws into my hair as she pulled me in so tight I could not breathe. I drove into her, sucking her clit like my life depended on it, tongue lashing about like the torn sail of a frigate in a North Sea gale.
Her leg drove me down, even as her own body curled silently up as her mouth opened in a wordless scream. Three times she bent forward like a bow, and then lay back wracked by shudders as I switched from sucking her clit to desperately sucking down air with my nose, and her sweet cum with my mouth.
I was a bit of a hot mess when My Lady pulled me off.
I lay between her legs and rested my cheek above her mound. Content to lie on her, and listen to our pulses slow from the raging thunder of culmination down to the slow lazy beats of contentment.
Finally, she patted the blanket beside her and said “Come pet.”
I lay beside her, she rolled away from me after pulling down her skirt so I spooned with her, wrapping her in my arms and burying my face in her neck to smell her hair and skin.
I am not sure how much time passed, but the burn on my arms was telling me it was too long, and the heat from the sand was such that the thickness of our blanket was proving its wisdom. My Lady whispered softly.
“Come pet, time to go home.”
We spent a long companionable ride on the bus to the stop she gets off at. I walked her to the door, and watched sadly as we drove away. I worked to burn every second of our day together into my brain, because the last few years had been cold and ugly, and days like this were worth more than the billions rich idiots spent waving their penises about in space.