The Last Submissive -Mistress Elisabeth Hunter (14)
Mistress Hunter Arranges Dance Lessons For Me and Miss Lilly
Mistress Hunter arranged for our lessons at a studio in Alexandria, no expense spared, each of us with our own private instructor. Miss Lilly danced with a tall, buoyant fellow named Gene, last name Knott, not Kelly, but who danced like his namesake. In his arms, Lillian looked like she had been dancing all her life. She seemed a natural, her body lithe and graceful, her hips swaying provocatively with every step, seemingly without conscious effort, like breathing. How do women do this?
Me, my hips worked like a toy soldier’s, legs swiveling on wooden pegs. I envied Miss Lilly for her grace on the floor; however, my instructor, a vibrant Hispanic woman named Nina, assured me that my job as leader was to make my partner look good, not to outshine her with fancy moves, so long as I could capably lead and let her show off her styling, I’d be fine.
Why Don’t They Teach Useful Skills In Grade School
After forty-five minutes of individual lessons with our instructors, we’d take a break and then start over, but now paired together, with Nina watching from the side. Just as Mistress Hunter promised, not only did I get to hold Lillian, I got to lead her around the floor. It was not such an easy job, thinking of a half-dozen things all at once: carriage, posture, holding “frame,” remembering the steps, steering your partner, styling . . . I felt like a klutz, I was anything but a natural, but oh my god, it was fun.
Why don’t they teach dancing in school? Why don’t they teach real life skills? I think back on the useless stuff I learned in middle and high school and would gladly trade it all for life-hack lessons: how to drive a stick shift, change the oil, fix a flat; do laundry, iron a shirt, type with all ten fingers. Then there’s the opposite sex: what to say to a girl, how to romance her, how best to break up if it doesn’t work out; and social etiquette, table manners, writing thank you notes, and most of all . . . how to dance.
Dancing Gave Me Confidence In My Vanilla Life
Our lessons were every Wednesday. I’d rush back to Alexandria after work and just make it in time for our six o’clock appointment. We learned the Latin dances, Cha Cha, Mambo and Rumba; and the smooth dances, Foxtrot, Tango and Waltz. Throw in some Salsa and Swing and all the dances blurred in my head at first. After about six months, they began to separate out, each dance with its own distinct steps, form and flow, its unique nuances of styling, with the common elements shared by each dance like spices in cooking, salt and pepper enhancing every dish, the same moves enhancing every dance.
What I didn’t count on, and in hindsight have to marvel at the wisdom of Mistress Hunter, is that in the process of learning to dance, I gained confidence as a man, something that I always sorely lacked, in particular around woman; part of my inclination to be a submissive, I think, because if I couldn’t lead, at least I could follow. Now I was learning to lead a woman, and the muscle memory from the dance floor somehow seeped into my demeanor. Even the women at work noticed. I started to get subtle hints from a number of girls who normally wouldn’t give me the time of day that they were interested.
The Moment I Knew I Fell In Love With Miss Lilly
Now it became clear the breadth and depth of Mistress Hunter’s sadistic plan, her control extending into all things, including vanilla life. Oh, the exquisite irony of being flirted with by a beautiful young lady (who heretofore had ignored me) while wearing Mistress’s cock cage. But that’s even not the worst of it. Mistress Hunter must’ve known all along that I would fall in love with Miss Lilly.
I suppose it was inevitable. Miss Lilly and I spent so much time together, evenings and weekends, me at her feet, cleaning floors, helping with chores around the house, even gardening in the back yard. She was forbidden fruit. What sweet, unrelenting torment. Worse than any whipping in the dungeon.
Actually, I can tell you the exact moment I realized I had fallen in love with her: it was in the garden. I was on my hands and knees, in my slave harness and chastity cage, weeding a vegetable plot. She was watering, hose in hand, a fine spray catching sunlight, making a mini-rainbow. Her hair was in a ponytail under a round straw hat; she wore a white halter-top and short, cut-off blue jean shorts, flip flops on her feet . . . she was smiling to herself, that angelic, lips-together smile of hers . . . at that moment, I knew.
Does Miss Lilly Know I Lover Her?
I think Lillian knew before me. I wondered if she knew it would happen from the start. Maybe she knew going all the way back to when I first applied; after all, she had helped screen the applicants. Little did I know that when I interviewed with Mistress Hunter at the Columbia Firehouse, I was interviewing with Lillian Packard, too. No matter how harshly she treated me inside the walls of Mistress Hunter’s home, I had this feeling that she felt the same way. Maybe not quite so head over heels as me, but she loved me in her own quiet way. Like that smile.
I tried to think of a way to get Lillian alone, out of the house (which, I learned had video security cameras everywhere), away from Mistress Hunter’s seemingly omniscient presence. Maybe we could skip a dance lesson and flee to my house in Maryland? The problem with that was Mistress Hunter had rented out the house. A motel? Mistress Hunter had put me on a strict cash allowance; I didn’t have the money or a credit card. Inside Mistress Hunter’s home, I didn’t dare violate the cardinal rule. That left Wednesdays, and so it was while dancing with Lillian in the studio that I became her lover.
Mistress Hunter And Her Sexual Playthings
Inside the walls of Mistress Hunter’s home, I tried to be scrupulously professional, the perfect house boy and slave, always thinking ahead, trying to be helpful to Miss Lilly and available to Mistress Hunter’s slightest whim or demand. I ate my meals at her feet and spent many hours in position on all fours next to her as she worked in her office or read in the library. I endured regular punishment sessions in the dungeon and slept most nights in my cage at the foot of her bed. All of this became quite routine, the comforting regularity of a schedule, of a routine, even one as a slave.
What never became routine were the games that Mistress Hunter played with Miss Lilly and me, her favorite sexual playthings, games that were humiliating and exhilarating at the same time. For example, she would find us in a room together, say the kitchen, doing dishes, Miss Lilly washing and me drying plates and silver (the dishwasher was underused in this household, reserved for post-dinner parties).
“Lillian, present!” Mistress Hunter would command as she strode into our presence. Miss Lilly would instantly stop what she was doing, turn to face Mistress Hunter, put her hands behind her head and spread her legs. Mistress Hunter would thrust her hand down Miss Lilly’s crouch to feel if she was wet. Of course, more times than not, she was not. After all, she was doing dishes.
Chance Gets Miss Lilly Wet For Mistress Hunter
Now Mistress Hunter would turn her attention to me, already dropped to hands and knees on the floor, the instant she entered the room. “Chance, be a good boy and make Miss Lilly wet.”My role was to crawl in front of Miss Lilly, remove her dress, pull down her panties, and put my tongue to her cunt.
While I aroused Miss Lilly, Mistress Hunter would don her strap-on cock. Of course, by the time I had Lillian aroused and wet, my cock was bursting at the seams in my chastity cage.
Next, Mistress Hunter put us side-by-side, both of us on all-fours, our asses presented to her doggy style. She’d take Miss Lilly’s rattan cage and distribute vicious blows to our bottoms, not for having done anything wrong, but as a reminder that in her world, pain was the price of pleasure.
The Ladies Reach Orgasm First
She always started with Miss Lilly. She would thrust her cock deep into the woman I adored, turn on the vibrator, and then fuck her like a whore. I tended to idealize Miss Lilly, the angel in the garden, but at times like this, she turned into a slut, begging Mistress Hunter to fuck her even harder, begging for permission to cum, accepting devil’s bargains of future punishment in the dungeon for the privilege of cumming. She often came two and three times, then Mistress Hunter would ignore her cries and sweet pleas and focus on her own pleasure, then finally orgasm, her body collapsing onto Miss Lilly’s back.
After she had recovered, she would withdraw, her cock dripping with Miss Lilly’s juices, and turn her attention to me. “Suck it clean, slave,” she’d say. I’d gladly suck her shaft as if it were the rod of heaven itself, especially knowing the juices I swallow were my beloved’s.
It’s Chance Turn To Be Fucked
Then my turn; Mistress Hunter would move behind me. She’d lube my ass with quick squirt from a syringe and then thrust herself inside me. She fucked me even harder than Miss Lilly, and since I couldn’t cum with my cock in its cage, she’d make me beg for a future orgasm (generally reserved for Sunday brunch). She’d orgasm a second time; I’d feel her weight fall down on me, the mounds of her breasts pressed against my back, her chin on my spine, and while she was in the throes of ecstasy, I would steal a glance at Lillian.
We’d smile at each other, as if we had just made love, then quickly avert our gazes to the floor. Mistress Hunter would pull out of me, drop her strap-on harness, and leave as quickly as she came, like a thunderstorm had blown through the kitchen. We’d clean up behind her and return to our chores, almost as if nothing had happened . . . only everything had happened.
This is what we had signed up for; this was our fate, our suffering, our joy.
Next: Martial Arts