Cunninlingus For Mistress Hunter
I heard the receptionist, Melony knock on the door a few minutes later. Mistress Hunter uncrossed her legs and spread them open, reached under the desk, grasped my hair and pulled my head toward her crotch, which I now saw was absent of panties and fully exposed. “Use your tongue, Mr. Green . . . and do it quietly,” she ordered from above. Then in a louder voice, “Come in, Mel.”
I eased my tongue against Mistress Hunter’s clit and began gently probing, the way I knew she liked, small exploratory circles to start, the lightest touch of the tip of my tongue. Behind me, I heard the office door swing open and the padded sound of Melony approaching the desk.
Another Submissive For Mistress?
“Here’s your coffee, Ms. Hunter. And the Packard file.” There was a pause for the placing of a coffee cup and saucer on the desktop and the exchange of the file. I continued my ministrations at the temple. My cock throbbed painfully in its cage—this scenario was blowing my mind and blowing up my libido. “Where’s Mr. Green?” Melony remarked, her voice a little muffled by the thick mahogany wood above my head. “I brought him coffee, too.”
Mistress Hunter put a hand on the back of my head and drew my lips tighter against her crotch, signaling for me to be more vigorous with my tongue. Without skipping a beat, she said, “Melony, you know that’s none of your business . . . but perhaps you’d like to swap places with him?” Silence. Then a surprising reply, “I’d like that very much, Mistress.”
Mr. Green Has The Best Genetics For Breeding
Mistress Hunter chuckled. “I bet you would, my sweet darling. Maybe later. Now tell me about the candidates for Miss Packard.” As I processed the fact that here was another submissive in the thrall of Mistress Hunter, Melony’s voice turned professional. She said, “We have eight suitable candidates. Five are residents of the D.C. Metro and Maryland area, and three are flying in. You know the five local subs; the others are new.”
“I’ll want to meet the new ones before they are taken to the farm. Please arrange to have them brought to my house the day prior.” “Yes, Miss Hunter. Er . . . as you can see, one of the donors is Mr. Green.” I felt Mistress Hunter’s nails dig into my scalp. “I know that, Melony. He has the best genetics of all the candidates, if I’m not mistaken. Isn’t that right?”
A Slave’s Gratitude
“Yes, Miss Hunter.” “Well that’s fine, then. Come back later and perhaps I’ll let you experience Mr. Green’s superior genetics first hand. Now be a dear and skedaddle.” “Yes, Mistress,” Melony cooed and left the office. When the door clicked shut, Mistress Hunter placed her other hand behind my head and drew me in even more tightly so that I could hardly breath. “Oooh, that’s nice, slave, keep it up, just like that, don’t stop,” she uttered, her voice ragged at the edges.
A few moments later I felt her come, not one of her powerful squirting orgasms, more of a shudder and release. She pushed my lips away from her cunt. “That’ll do, slave, get back in position.” I backed away, wiping Mistress Hunter’s juices with the back of my forearms and licking them clean. I settled on the carpet, crouched on all fours, butt up, head down, arms splayed out. Mistress Hunter found my hands and rested her feet on top of them. I took a gamble and gave each foot a fleeting kiss, hoping she would accept the uninvited gesture for what it was, a slave’s gratitude.
She accepted, or ignored, the kisses without comment and went about her business. The sound of her nails tapping on a keyboard floated down to my ears. I pondered the exchange with Melony about donors and genetics, trying to wrap my head around it . . . clearly, the plan to breed Lillian was real.
What, Mistress Hunter would breed her and then auction the baby to the highest bidder? Or was there already an adoption in place, some wealthy couple eager for a baby? Had Lillian agreed to this? It was possible—I vaguely recalled a paragraph that said Mistress Hunter owned my body and my sperm and could do whatever she wanted with either one. Could Lillian have signed over the rights to her womb?
As I mulled over these disturbing thoughts, Mistress Hunter began making a series of phone calls to various clients. It soon became apparent that she was not an investment manager; in fact, she was a high-powered lobbyist—one who apparently knew everyone in Washington, D.C. on a first-name basis. Clearly this was the ‘educational’ part of the morning, the details which I will never divulge, but leave it to say the movie “Miss Sloane” (a political thriller starring Jessica Chastain as a cut-throat D.C. lobbyist) was probably based on Miss Elisabeth Hunter. They even look alike.
Back to the sub entertainment part of the morning. After an hour or so, Mistress Hunter let me out for a potty break. When I emerged from the bathroom, she greeted me with nickel-plated handcuffs, which she snapped on my wrists and then clipped into a wrought-iron ring at the top of her coat tree, positioned in a corner of the office, across from her desk.
“Let’s stay up on our toes, shall we, Mr. Green?” she said, lifting the cheeks of my ass. “You’ve heard of posing bondage, haven’t you?” “No, Mistress.” “Ah, well it’s quite simple, really, the submissive as an art form, decorating a living space . . . or in this case, a work space . . . my workspace.” “Yes, Mistress.” “Stay up on your toes, Mr. Green; arch your back, stand tall, keep those gorgeous cheeks taut for me, so that at any time I glance up I’ll enjoy my living art. You’ll do that for me, won’t you, slave?”
“Yes, Mistress.” “Good boy.” She gave my ass a firm slap and returned to her desk. The first fifteen minutes weren’t so bad, but with every passing minute, it grew more difficult to stay up on my toes. The muscles of my legs began to tremble, while my calves threatened to cramp. How do ballerinas do this? The worse thing was I couldn’t let up for an instant; I was facing the wall, so I had to assume that at any moment, Mistress Hunter’s eyes were on me.
Work Harder To Stay On Your Toes Mr. Green
At about the hour mark, I finally had to drop down for a moment to step back and stretch my calves and hamstrings. A moment later, Mistress Hunter pressed the button on her intercom, “Melony, come in here, please, it’s time that you meet Mr. Green in the flesh.” Ha. ‘In the flesh’—this was typical Mistress Hunter irony. I had a feeling there was going to be more to this meeting than just another hello. A few short moments later I heard knocking on the door.
“Come in, Mel.” Melony entered the office. I could see her out the corner of my eye in her fetching tangerine power suit, stiletto heels, long black hair down her back. I knew her eyes were on me. Naked me. “Mel, it seems Mr. Green here is having a bit of trouble staying on his toes. Take this rod and see if you can encourage him to try harder.”
More Strikes From The Cane
“Yes, Mistress.” Uh-oh. I wondered how far back these two went. Probably long before Lillian. Melony disappeared from my peripheral vision. I heard her walk to the desk, then return to a position behind me. I lifted back up on my toes, but it was too late—I heard the dreaded sound of a rattan cane slicing through the air, and then the searing impact on my right thigh. I let out a yelp.
“Shush, Mr. Green,” Melony murmured into my ear. I felt rubber against my teeth. She forced a ball gag into my mouth, then I felt her fingers behind my neck, tugging the strap and fastening the buckle. “There, now we can keep this just between us, no need for the rest of the office to know, is there?” I had to agree with that. Again the supersonic whistle of the cane, followed by another searing blow, this one to my ass. This time, the gag stifled my scream.
An Invitation To Go To Lunch
Ten more times the cane landed; I attempted to rise higher on my toes each time to demonstrate compliance, but it made no difference. When she was done, Melony rubbed my wounded ass and thighs with her remarkable cool hand and said, “Mr. Green, I’ve heard such good things about you, perhaps you’d be so kind as to accompany me to lunch this afternoon . . . that’s assuming Mistress Hunter has her own plans . . . Mistress?”
“That would be fine, Mel. Come back at twelve-thirty.” “Yes, Mistress.” Melony freed the ball gag and stepped back. I thought my ordeal was over, but no, the cane whistled viciously through the air one more time, landing on my back. I winced but managed to stay silent behind gritted teeth. “That’s for good luck, Mr. Green . . . I’ll be back in an hour.”
Melony returned the cane and gag to Mistress Hunter’s desk and then walked across the office to the door and opened it. She paused for a moment, looking over at me, taking in my raging hard-on, encased in steel rings, my cock betraying the arousal this latest humiliation had brought. “Do be a good boy and stay up on those toes, Mr. Green,” she said, and sashayed out the door.
Next: Power Lunch