Those words. They make me smile. She forgets them until I put my fingers to my ear and prompt: “and you say?”
The prompt causes her to widen her already enormous eyes and respond with the titular phrase, the one that makes me smile, the one that causes me to…hunger.
She returns with wine, cheese, baguettes that she baked for us, sausage. She bends to set these things down on chairs forming makeshift tables next to the black leather chaise lounge that the Mistress and I have draped ourselves across.
As our little whore bends over, the hem line of her skirt drifts a bit higher than before and we see, glistening beauty within.
“Stop, whore.” I am calm. I need not raise my voice, because our whore simply understands and does. Hear. Understand. Do. Without question.
I ask the Mistress if she sees what I do. Something naughty and forbidden, but now thankfully in front of our faces, and thankfully no longer tempting us over a pre-date glass of wine at far too posh a place to allow me to do as I do now, lift up the hem of the skirt a schooch higher and reveal the glorious folds of the juiciest labia I ever did see.
The Mistress smiles and nods. I slide my thumb into the whore, our toy, bent over, still holding the plate of food as though afraid to let go. A moan escapes her. I notice her eyes have fluttered closed. “Do you like that, whore?”
“Yes,” the insolent whore responds.
“Yes?” I ask, firmer.
“Yes,” she says again.
“Yes, what?” I ask, take her right buttocks in my hand, and squeeze until I hear a gasp.
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
The Mistress gazes into her beautiful brown eyes, turning over decadent ideas on how best to play with her toy, my whore, tonight. For the night has just begun, hasn't it? She smiles and tells her, “Good girl.”
