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This is a multi-part story of how Amanda was transformed from being a respectably married woman and mother into bisexual femme getting off on being abused and humiliated.
Although each ‘Take’ is a stand alone story, it hangs together better if you start at the beginning.
“What do you mean you want to take me out?” I said to Sammi when she phoned a disappointingly long ten days after that last incredible session.
“What I said, I want us to go on a date.”
“Oh Sammi don’t be silly.”
“It’s not silly and I want to do it. You’ll like it.”
“Sammi its crazy, you’re young enough to be my daughter and we are both women.”
“Yes Amanda I am aware of that, I know full well that you are a woman, I’ve fucked you enough times, haven’t I?”
I didn’t reply.
“Haven’t I Missus W? I have fucked you enough, fucked my best friend Sara’s mum enough times haven’t I? Heard from her lately?” She said referring to my daughter. They had been at school together and had just completed their final exams and celebrated their eighteenth birthdays. Sara had gone travelling in Asia and Oz on a gap year, but Sammi was trying to break into professional soccer and was working with the Arsenal ladies squad at their training complex just north of London in London Colney.
“Yes, I hear most days,” I replied becoming a little worried as I always did when she brought Sara into the conversation.
Sammi had always been a loose canon at school and since she had seduced me and introduced me to lesbian sex some six weeks ago I had been enormously concerned about two things.
First that she would tell Sara and second that she may have seduced my daughter.
“I’ll be talking to her tonight, she’s gonna call me.”
That worried me. It also sent me a message.
“What sort of date did you mean?” I diplomatically asked. I could almost hear the young woman’s self-satisfied smile down the phone.
“Oh a few drinks, dinner, a club, that sort of stuff.”
“I really don’t know.”
“Amanda, you do know, you know full well you want me to keep fucking you and to get that you have to come on this fucking date, for that’s what will also happen.”
“What?” I naively asked.
“I will fuck you, several times probably.”
She was always pretty blunt, but this was extreme. Extreme, rude really, impolite, but enormously arousing.
Since our second session, she had begun to dominate me. At first, it was rather subtle, but recently it was becoming more overt. Yes, as Sammi saw me reacting positively to her humiliating, demeaning and abusing me, so she did it all the more. I just didn’t understand what was really happening or why I went along with it. Other than, that is, I enjoyed it. It turned me on to be used, directed and controlled by her.
“And we’d better do it when Kevin’s away as I might want to keep you all night.”
“So where will we go?” I asked thinking of a local restaurant.
“Oh we’ll have a few drinks in Soho, have dinner somewhere then I want to take you to a club in Notting Hill, funnily quite near that blue door that was made famous in the film.”
“What sort of club?” I asked.
“You don’t need to bother your pretty little airhead about that, I’ll arrange everything.”
She could be so bloody rude, I thought, but somehow her way of insulting and demeaning me did something to me. Just what the fuck it was I didn’t know, but the other night it had caused me to lick her pussy for ages as she sat on the arm of my sofa.
In the end I agreed to go. We set a date in a few days time on a Thursday evening. Kevin would be away so I had the whole night.
Although, inevitably, quite nervous about many aspects of this: going on a ‘date’ with a female, her being eighteen and me forty three and what would happen on the date, as that Thursday approached I became more and more excited.
“Wear something really girly,” she had instructed me on one of our many phone calls before the date.
“What do you mean?”
“Something really very fem, don’t try looking butch.”
I didn’t really understand why she said that or what might be behind her command for, as far as I was concerned, I never wore anything butch. It wasn’t worth asking her, though, for I knew I would just get a real mouthful if I did.
As she was coming from north of London, probably the Arsenal training ground, and I would be travelling from Chigwell to the east of London, we agreed to meet at Liverpool Street Station, by W H Smiths. I had suggested that we used the executive car company that Kevin had an account with.
“We could have a nice Merc or BM,” I’d said.
“Don’t be such a fucking snob, what’s wrong with the tube, be like normal people,” she had snarled down the phone. So I had.
Something really girly had been my instruction.
Underwear was easy, I smiled either, none or, frilly, lacy white stuff. See through, low cut, front opening bra and a thong, a tiny one, what else? With lacy topped white hold ups, what could be more girly?
On top was more difficult. I’m forty three for fuck’s sake, escort tandoğan I don’t really do girly. Trousers or a skirt? If a skirt should that actually be a skirt or a dress, if a skirt what above the waist and if a frock what sort. Bollocks it wasn’t that easy.
Bearing in mind her ‘nothing butch’ command I rejected trousers. So a skirt or dress I thought morbidly looking through my wardrobe knowing that I was unlikely to find anything that girly. Then I had a brainwave. If I wanted girly why not look in a girly’s wardrobe, after all I did have a girly didn’t I in my eighteen year old daughter.
It took me less than a minute. I found a pleated kilt. Not a heavyweight, proper Scots one, but a lighter, mainly red, and black made from a thinner material than the traditional plaid. Ok it was a bit tight round both the waist and hips, but I could handle that and, of course it was far too short for a woman of my age. But it was very girly, I thought as I twirled in front of the mirror wearing just that and my white holdups. I imagined doing that later for Sammi as I watched my tits jiggling and felt my nipples hardening at the thought.
I knew that I had a tight, white, cotton blouse that would accompany it perfectly. I went to my own bedroom and retrieved that from a hanger. I slipped it on and tucked it into the waist of the kilt. It looked good, but when stretched across my breasts and at the back the fine cotton became a little see through. My nipples were very evident. I undid it and slipped on the bra I intended wearing. That was a Lejaby made from a gossamer thin, diaphanous lace. It was better, but as I moved or stretched the shadows of my areola were evident. I thought it looked quite sexy, but wondered just what it would be like if I hardened as I was likely to do. I solved that, or thought I did; by thinking that I would take a long scarf with me that I could wrap round my neck and let dangle down the front. Good girl I thought, job done.
Despite what she had said about taking the tube I got a car to Liverpool Street, she wouldn’t know. In the fairly high, strappy, silver tart’s shoes and with the unfamiliarly short skirt I was pleased that I had, for walking down the steps onto the main concourse of the station was difficult. I had to remain very upright so that the skirt didn’t ride up, but not so straight that I put a pressure on the cotton of the blouse from my breasts, which, for some reason felt unusually full and heavy.
Luckily I saw her before she saw me coming down the stairs for then she would have known I hadn’t come on the Central Line.
“Wow, Missus W,” she said smiling and putting her hands on my shoulders after I had tapped her on hers. Beaming a big smile, she made me feel good but embarrassed by saying, rather too loudly. “You look fucking great.”
It got worse though from an embarrassment angle for she took me in her arms and pulled me close to her squashing my body against hers.
“Sammi, no” I said panicking and trying to get away.
“Missus W” she as good as snarled. “Never say no to me. Do as I fucking well ask or fucking well tell you. Got it? Ok?”
Of course I got it, that wasn’t difficult, but accepting it was. She was going on.
“You’re my bitch and you need to know that. You’ll do exactly what I tell, when I tell you and how I tell. Right?”
I was her bitch, she’d said; what did that mean? I had no idea, but somehow it excited me to think it.
The situation was, however, getting out of hand a bit for although I didn’t dare look at them there were quite a few people close by who I assumed could hear what she was saying. He fingers pressed into my shoulders.
“Right?” she repeated “Get it?”
I nodded but said nothing. I was now in a total conflict and that got even worse when she said.
“Listen slut, you’re mine to do with as I want aren’t you?”
Shit I was nodding.
“Anything I want?”
I nodded again.
“If I tell you, you’ll do it won’t you slag? And stop fucking nodding, you’re like one of those stupid nodding donkeys.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Than answer the fucking question.”
“Yes Sammi,” I found myself saying with some difficulty, “Yes I will.”
“If I told you to undo that sexy fucking blouse and get your big fat tits out you’d do it wouldn’t you?”
That scared me because I was afraid she might. I was even more scared to say no, for then I thought she probably would. What the hell was I getting myself into, I wondered as she kissed my head? She shook me.
I muttered “Yes” realising that it was not a case getting myself into something, I was already in it right up to my neck.
“But of course I won’t, not yet Amanda, you aren’t ready for that yet are you, come on.”
We had to stand on the tube to Holborn. Walking from the Central to the Piccadilly line she held my hand and pulled me close. It was still embarrassing, but less so. We also had to stand the few stops to Piccadilly Circus for the train was crowded. That was both a relief and exciting. She was able escort tunalı to press herself against me and as my back was against the door she was even able to slip her hand up the kilt, which excited me, without raising suspicions and that saved my embarrassment.
I knew, well guessed she was testing me. She had been the last times we’d been together. More and more she was taking me over, pushing me and stretching our weird relationship. She was removing both my inhibitions and my resistance as she assessed just how far she could go humiliating and demeaning me. We hadn’t discussed any of this. We hadn’t talked about Domme and sub relationships. It didn’t seem necessary as both of us, naturally it seemed, adopted the appropriate roles.
As we got off the train so she said in a voice that was louder than needed.
“You go first Mandy, I want to look right up that skirt and see what you’re wearing under it.”
I nearly fainted with embarrassment as I saw a couple look at us, but I also realised my heart was pounding.
She stood two steps behind me on the long Piccadilly Circus escalators.
“Lean forward a bit baby,” she said thankfully quite quietly. I did.
“Oh my fucking lord” she groaned, moving onto the step behind me and slipping her hand up my skirt and right onto the cheeks of my bum. “You are such a fucking slut I could shag you right here,” she said, thankfully just as we go to the top and walked round the circular station to the Windmill Street exit.
“Bollocks” she grunted as we came out “We should have got out at Leicester Square.”
“Why where we going?”
“There’s a pub I like in Old Compton street, near where it joins Wardour, we’re going there.”
Although I was very naïve about anything to do with the physical side of being bi, gay or lesbian, I was very aware, from eating out in Soho with Kevin many times, that the area she was taking me was the heart of the gay scene in London. And if the junction of Old Compton and Wardour was the heart, then the Falcon pub was the epicentre of it.
We had held hands again on the relatively short walk from Piccadilly Circus. Although it seemed odd for Sammi to show affection, for in our ‘relationship’ so far she hadn’t shown much of that, more just raw sex, and although I had at first been highly embarrassed, I was getting used to this public show of girlyness, well bi or les really, but of course I couldn’t admit that to myself. As people looked at us I sort of reconciled it in my mind that she could be my daughter and why shouldn’t we be holding hands? Mums and daughters do, Sara and I do. But mums and daughters who hold hands don’t wear the girly get up I was sporting or the black Adidas tracky trousers rolled up to the knees that sludgy green, tee shirt and black leather waistcoat that Sammi had on, oh and of course her flip flops, which she seemed to wear all the time. They also don’t swing their clasped hands as she was making us do, or wear black, thick rubber bracelets round each wrist, chains round both ankles and have their spiky hair gelled. Well some might, but it would be rare.
Alright we were walking in Soho, which is a liberal area and centre of the London sex trade, but I was still embarrassed at the overt way Sammi was illustrating that we were partners and not mother and daughter. Embarrassed, but also charged up. I had never done anything like this. My new found sexuality that had been awakened by this amazing young woman was doing things to me. I felt free, uninhibited, liberated almost and enormously worked up. As we walked further, as she squeezed my hand harder, pulled me to her, pecked me on my cheek and touched me on my arms, hips and bum I became more worked up; I felt tremendously horny and thought that I was probably up for anything. And that was just so not me, I could hardly believe it. Several times I wondered what Kevin would think and once or twice with terrible pangs of guilt what Sara, my daughter and Sammi’s friend would think, but I had to cast them from my mind for we were going into the pub.
It was clearly a gay and lesbian joint and it was clear that Sammi was quite well known for numerous gay men and several butchy women greeted her with hugs and kisses. She didn’t introduce me to any of them, but they all stared at me and looked me up and down.
“Nice kilt luv,” one of the gay men remarked as we walked past
We eventually got to the bar.
“Pop yourself up there,” she said nodding at a high bar stool and ordered herself a pint of Stella. “What you ‘aving?”
“Dry white wine please,” I replied.
“Ok order that when you catch George’s eye and cross your fucking legs, give the girls something to look at.”
Turning away and talking to a couple of real dykie looking women, she made it clear who was paying. Being the Domme only goes so far I ruefully smiled giving the barman a tenner.
I looked around. There were a few feminine looking girls in there. They seemed like me to be on their own, though I suspected their partners, like mine, were not far away and were keeping a close eye on their escort türbanlı ‘property.’ Nearly all of the more butch looking women seemed to be drinking pints. I wondered if it would be bad form to chat to anyone, but thought it wises not to.
I felt uncomfortable as the reality of my changing sexuality was seen all round me. The atmospheres was hard and tough, there was no romance or even eroticism about it. The ‘dykes,’ as I termed them, preened and posed, the gay men strutted around laughing a lot and taking the piss out of each other and the ‘lipsticks’ like me sat around at their Dommes beck and call. This really wasn’t what I wanted at all. There were, though, two redeeming features. Firstly despite all my reservations I was aroused. Maybe it was the number of people, men as well as women, who made eyes at me or maybe it was the expectation of what would happen later with Sammi, for I knew we would have sex sometime that evening. The other was that despite being with a woman who was young enough to be my daughter, I didn’t feel out of place agewise with this group for there were several older than me and many around my age.
“You look lovely,” a girl dressed in tight jeans and a white, man’s shirt shirt said as she stood beside me.
“Thanks,” I replied, not really knowing what to say or do.
She held her hand out. “You must be Amanda.”
“Yes, er yes I am,” I replied.
I looked more closely at her. She was slim, quite attractive with short, dark hair cut in a sort of page boy style. She was slightly, but not overtly manly and was probably about my age. There was certainly one, if not two, too many buttons undone on her shirt for most of her small breasts were revealed when she moved and she was not wearing a bra.
She smiled. “Sam told me she would be bringing her new er friend,” she smiled.
“Oh really,” I replied totally unsure of myself in this new situation.
“Yes, Sammi and I go back a bit, she’s quite amazing isn’t she?”
I found myself being drawn into the culture of where we were and who we were with.
“Yes she’s incredible.”
“Oy,” I heard from behind as I felt a hand on my hip. I looked round, thankfully it was Sammi. “Jo, keep your fucking hands to yourself,” she snarled.
“Alright keep your knickers on bitch,” Jo smiled back. “And my hands hadn’t done a thing had they Sammi”?
“No,” I muttered.
“Don’t worry babe, give it another few minutes and they would have” Sammi said confusing me as to who she was really referring to. I wasn’t sure if they were joking or not.
As she said that she slid her hand from my hip onto my stomach. Her fingers were on the soft, fleshy part just a few centimetres above my pubis. She was behind me her breasts pressing against my back and Jo was in front of me, her long, jeans covered legs just touching mine by my knees. I was sitting still wondering what the hell was going on?
“Wouldn’t they Jo?” Sammi asked.
“Oh yes,” Jo replied moving slightly nearer to me
“They can if you like,” I heard with complete astonishment Sammi saying.
‘What was she saying? What was she suggesting?’ I asked myself, thinking that deep down I probably knew the answer. She was offering me, her bitch, to another Domme. And the craziest thing about this was that I felt excited by it.
Jo moved so that she was right in front of me. Her knee was pressing against my shin. Where my legs were crossed the upper knee was higher. She pressed her stomach against that.
“You sure Sam?” Jo asked letting her eyes roam over my legs and up my body, lingering on my breasts in the white, cotton blouse.
“Absolutely mate, after all its share and share alike isn’t it and in any case Amanda is far too uptight.”
“How do you mean?” Jo asked resting her hand on my stocking covered knee. It felt quite nice.
“Well look at her fucking blouse, it’s done up almost to the neck.”
“So it is,” Jo remarked.
They were ignoring me as a person, for they had reduced me to merely a presence. I was there for what they wanted me for, not because I was me.
“Missus W,” Sammi said, quite loudly.
“Yes Sammi,” I quite demurely replied, as I felt myself being drawn even deeper into the lesbian, Domme/sub scenario.
She then said what were the scariest, yet some of the most exciting words that I could ever recall being directed to me.
Undo the buttons on your blouse.
It was almost as if I was an automaton, for I simply asked.
Almost as soon as those words were out of my mouth I was aghast that I had uttered them. How the hell could I be in such a situation, I asked myself? How could I let myself be so humiliated and demeaned let alone by a girl young enough to be my daughter?
Panicking a little I looked round the rather grubby bar, which I noticed didn’t seem to impose the ban on smoking at all, for lots of men and women were puffing away. I had noticed earlier that the dress code of quite a few of the girls, the more girly ones like me, the fems I suppose they, or we, were called, was rather daring. There was lots of bare skin on show, legs and chests mainly. Tight clothing was everywhere emphasising bums and boobs, on the gay men as well I saw smiling. Skirts were mainly short or with slits up them and, like Jo, the lack of bras on numerous girls was quite obvious.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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