when I retooled the blog, I decided to change the way I did it. I am taking images I find on the internet and writing stories around them. I found the image here and thought what a wonderful sign to have for the right occasion, and herein I describe the right occasion I have in mind.

Hope you enjoy


She felt another gentle tug and took a deep breath. She crawled through the door, knees pressed into the thick, soft carpeting and paused as he did. She took hold of his ankle then, feeling the fine silk fabric under her fingers. It was forward and familiar, but if he wished to punish her for it, she would consider it punishment well spent. Touching him calmed her, settled the butterflies in her belly.

Belatedly, she remembered to spread her knees apart and berated herself for forgetting again. She wanted to steal a glance upward to see if he’d noticed, but decided he had. He always noticed even the smallest things about her.

He did not chastise her for the death grip on his ankle though. The bastard had probably noticed she was scared too.

Looking at the carpet and the expensive shoes around her, she had to admit there was some fear. Crawling naked in a room full of strangers on her hands and knees wearing only a collar and a leash would bring fear to any sane person, but there was an excitement too – a thrill of anticipation, of placing herself, her very life into His hands and being this completely vulnerable but for His protection.

In her mind she capitalized “His”, it made her feel more confident. Left free of artifice, no longer concerned with the proper clothing, the proper hair, the proper makeup to make the proper impressions on the proper people, she could concentrate on other things – like the way she was starting to get wet, the way strangers looked at her naked body with interest, lust, and pleasure on their faces.

She spread her knees a little wider yet, letting the cool air play with her sex, letting those behind her see the pink perfection her master loved so dearly. She was his, she said it, claimed it, held it to herself. She meant it too, every word, she was his. Today he wanted to show her off, to let others know how lucky he was, how beautiful his slave, how devoted his girl, and because she was his to do with as he pleased, she showed off.

Letting the pressure off her knees, she sat back by collapsing her legs under her. Her breath settled and she dared to look up, just a little. She wasn’t the only one there naked and leashed. She was at once relieved and a bit jealous. It was a frightening thrill to be the center of all attention, the single factor of lust in a crowded room, but there were at least three other naked girls and a boy, all leashed, all crawling behind Master or Mistress as the case may be.

She looked up and around the room. Richly appointed in dark woods and leather, like reliving the Story of O. Another thrill shot through her. Would she be whipped publically? Would she be given to someone to fuck in front of them all?

Her safeword came back to her unbidden and she made the effort to ignore it. She would rather have forgotten it completely. She was his and today she would prove it. Today she would do anything he told her, today, she would forget all the carefully formulated limits and live only in his eyes.

She didn’t realize she was touching herself until he slapped her hand away. There was the sparkle of laughter from above her and he and a woman he was talking to smiled down on her. It was the smile one gives to a cherished pet. She leaned against his strong leg.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a sign with the outline of a cartoon girl with impossible breasts that pointed upward like the shoes in an old Aladdin movie. The silhouette was wearing a leash and looking up at where the leash disappeared off the edge of the sign and the caption “Leash Laws Strictly Enforced” blazed above the girl and “All Subs Must Be Under Restraint” provided a platform of sorts for the cartoon girl to kneel upon.
She arched her back a little, keeping her head down trying to get her breasts to point to the ceiling like that, now all but forgetting the people around her.

The slave boy at his lead came following his mistress. The poor boy had a raging erection like a third leg was trying to sprout between the other two. It wasn’t monstrous, but it was… cute. Nicely tapered and a bulbous head and for a moment she wondered if he would be the one to take her, two slaves, two pets romping in the carpet while they watched, aroused and bemused.

Her master called her name then and she crawled behind him, feeling the boy caress her leg as she passed. She nestled down between her master’s legs as he settled into a chair.

“May I bring you something sir?” a woman’s voice asked and from the floor she looked between her master’s knees and saw a young woman clad only in an apron like a lace loincloth standing at her master’s side.

He ordered a scotch and some water for his pet.

“How pretty,” the waitress smiled down, “may I?” the question was, of course, addressed to him. He smiled and nodded and watched fondly as the waitress knelt beside her and stroked her cheek and neck and trailed a manicured hand over her breast, flicking the nipple. Despite herself she groaned under the caress.

“She’s so pretty,” the server said and rose to fetch the scotch and water.

He motioned his pet to rise and she faced him still on her knees. The pride and fierce look of adoration in his gaze made the last of her fears melt away and she lay her head in his lap, gazing up at him. As her chin touched his lap she felt his erection beneath the fancy clothing and timidly brought a hand to squeeze him through the cloth.

Meeting no resistance, she timorously unzipped him and while looking into his eyes for permission, fished out his cock. It was a magnificent thing, not the cock of a boy, but a man’s cock, thick, straight, strongly erect. She took it in her mouth greedily and began sucking it the way he liked.

The girl returned with the scotch and water in a bowl that she set by His feet. Master’s hand on his pet’s head paused her and she let go of him allowing him to spring free. The server leaned over and licked the length of him and kissed the tip before resuming her duties.

“Enjoying your time, my pet?” he asked.

“Yes Master,” she purred and slid him back into her mouth.

“Good,” He said, stretching in the thick heavy chair, “because the contests are about to start.”

“Contests?” He popped free of her tongue again in her startlement.

“Don’t worry, girl,” he smiled. “You’ll take Best In Show easily.”




She stands, silent and proud. Chained to a pole, protected by a transparent barrier, displayed, open, naked and spread.
Men and women pass her by, some shocked, some jaded, but they all look at her. Some have lust naked in their eyes, some appraise her, some pretend not to see the wetness of her mound trickling down her thighs, others boldly looking into her sex. A few attempt to breach the glass that separates them, lust and desire overtaking logic. A few others daringly taking their swollen shafts and spray their release over the cage that holds her, as if to mark her as theirs.
They cannot touch her.
Their pathetic attempts to have her, their desire for her, makes her stand proud in her bonds. She is a fantasy, a desire; she is the fevered craving of every man and many of the women. Proudly on display, her Master’s own, she stands with her breasts rising in defiance, her spread legs and pouting sex glistening with her own juices.
Covered as much by her master’s love as any physical barrier, she is his gift to the world, a single point of beauty and sex and fantasy quietly on display for those who understand what it means to be completely owned, and for those who never will.
She knows she is worthy of his service, the adulation of the passing crowd merely confirms it. Her pride comes from his: his desire to display her, his knowledge that she is worthy of his pride, his name, his collar.
So she stands, bound, naked, glistening, proud. She is a testament to her master, and nothing could please her more.


The party was a bit bigger than she’d anticipated.  She walked among them barefoot, her simple shrift hugging her curves and clinging to her.  It was one thing to ban the bra, a sentiment with which she was in full accord, but the … dress for lack of a better word, was almost worse than being naked.  Maybe not.  She’d know soon enough.

She was forbidden to wear anything other than the thin dress.  No underwear, no shoes, no jewelry.  She was to be an elegant hostess and to be sure that each guest was served and no glass was ever empty.  The rest of her instructions were much more frightening.

People they’d known for years, people they’d only recently met all pooled around the living room, some remarking on the oddity of a bed in the middle of the room.  Still, it was an era to challenge preconceived ideas, flower children were all gone and polyester rose in their stead.  Yuppies and disco music and furniture made of plastic and walls painted in orderly pastels dominated even the stogy pages of the Sears catalogue, so a bed in the living room was a statement, a bold choice and her guests congratulated each other on having the good taste to recognize it for what it was.

They were wrong, of course.

She was forbidden to tell anyone her orders.  She was allowed to chicken out, he was her Master, not her Monster, but she was determined to rise above her fears and push that envelope.

Besides, looking at their faces, she just kept getting wetter.  The fear was fueling her arousal.  He knew it would too, damn him.

Every time the next record fell onto the turntable, her heart lurched.  Elton John sang about Benny and Jets and she filled up three glasses with scotch, neat.  Paul McCartney warbled about a band escaping prison and she refilled a snack tray assuring one of her friends that yes it was strange to see a Beatle by himself.

When the commodores sang about a brick house, it was her time.  Her heart stopped,  her mouth went dry.  It was her time.  She looked across the bar to her Master.  He stood quietly, someone she didn’t know still yammering away at him as he caught her eye.  He dared her to call her safe word.  The challenge was in the set of his face, the angle of his head.  It was the challenge she needed.

She thought again of the guests that wandered in and out of the house on a warm summer night: artists, poets, thinkers and dreamers all.  She looked back at her Master and smiled a deep, defiant smile and locking her eyes on his, not looking at anyone else, her hand slipped of its own accord to the tie at her neck.  With a gesture, the tie parted and the thin dress pooled to the ground at her feet.

A gasp, a few others, but she only picked the dress up off the floor and folded it neatly before walking naked through the stunned crowd and handing it to her Master.  The look she gave him was one of triumph.

He smiled at her and lay a single dollar bill on the bar. He’d bet against her.  He’d bet she would call her safe word, that she wouldn’t get this far.  He’d bet a dollar.

He’d also bet against her following the next queue.  That was ten dollars.

She took up a tray and walked among the guests.  Yes, the clinging dress was worse that nothing.  Naked, she felt the warm air caress her skin, felt the eyes of her guests following the breeze.  The men who had surreptitiously stolen glances at her hard nipples through the fabric now openly gawked as she moved among them with the tray, making sure no glass was empty.

Sometimes as she walked around the bed, a hand would brush against her, the back of the hand at first, then fingertips, soon her ass was palmed and her sex was probed tenuously, like so many little boys that are just sure what they are doing will get them scolded.  The same people that praised each other for having taste enough to put a bed in a living room, now applauded each other for being enlightened enough to have a naked hostess.

She allowed herself to stand still a moment, after having made her rounds.  She was indeed the center of attraction.  All the men and most of the women now touched her as she went by.  They openly cupped her breasts, a few suckled her nipples, mostly women, and more than a few parted her soft folds and played as they desired with her sex.  Fingers slid in and out of her, her wetness was consumed along with the alcohol – a chaser to the rum.

They slipped into her and pulled out  glistening fingers. They l drank vodka and whisky while they slipped back inside her.

She was on the edge of orgasm in no time, but this was forbidden.  She pulled away when the edge was too close and went to the next groping.

Of the gathering of their friends, none left.  None were offended. None left without touching, caressing, arousing her.

Her knees grew weaker.  Her breath came in gasps, almost sobbing with the need to finish the soft torture her friends had begun.  When the second queue came she was too relieved to be self-conscious.

Mac Davis stated in no uncertain terms that she was “One Hell of a Woman” and she nearly ran to the bed in the middle of the room.

She flung herself on the mattress and spread her legs wide.  She thrust two fingers in her slit and pressed them to last knuckle.  She pulled back out, her free hand grasping at a breast, her legs twitching with need and pressure built from agonizing hours of being groped.


Unknown Origin

Her hips lifted and fell, lifted and fell, waiting another agonizing era for permission to finish.  The guests gathered around her, watching, the men straining at corduroy crotches and women radiating sex like waves of heat.

She waited for her Master, but no permission came.  It was too close, too hard, too much need. She called out “MASTER, PLEASE!”

Her edge was painful, consuming, but the crowd felt her need, knew her desire, they felt it too and they rode the wave with her, some touching themselves, some touching each other.  They looked from her to her Master and back again, begging him to release her, to release them all. They begged him to make her last just another moment longer.  Just another moment.  And one more.

“COME” her master ordered and she screamed.

Her cry rose from the mattress like triumph and primal release.  It gathered their need, it took them in a grip of iron and steel and made them feel her orgasm, made them feel the lightning running through her body, made them know what it was like to masterbate in front of a crowd .

Someone groaned.  Another whimpered.  Some dissipated into the background to explore each other.  Some applauded.

She lay there replete, legs spread, wet sex puckering and opening.

She smiled when her master placed $11.00 on her breast and kisses her tenderly.

“Double or nothing?” he whispered.