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From her pocket comes the black light. She flips it on and extends her arm back toward the door without moving her eyes from me. The doorknob glows eerily, still covered with the iridescent powder as a result of frottaging my quim days before.
“While the cat’s away the mouse will play I suppose. But I also obtained this during my visit to New York.”
She holds up a videotape.
“It seems a disgruntled clerk from the hotel you stayed at wanted me to see this. Said I’d find it very interesting. He was correct. After I viewed it I called and instructed Angela to cease all milking and feather you every three hours until I returned. You and I should watch this together.”
It must have been the wizened old man Maurice from whom I sought refuge by having him milk me into the hotel room bathtub. He did appear irritated by my unannounced departure months before.
“Late this afternoon after I work out we’ll go to my room and we’ll watch.”
Ms. Powers leaves. I am disappointed that she chose not to milk me. I am also perplexed by the video. I lie supine and unable to move. The throb in my overfilled breasts seems to correlate with my heartbeat. Feeling the steady, dull pain makes the day go very slowly.
Hours later I find myself in the Estate’s gymnasium. It is huge, designed to be utilized by the entire staff, therefore it has much equipment and takes up the basement of the entire east wing.
But Ms. Powers prefers to exercise alone. Therefore the staff is forbidden access during her daily rigorous workouts and but for the noise of her pumping the machinery, an observer would conclude the vast area to be unoccupied.
I am granted the privilege of watching the ebony goddess pump large weights for an astounding number of repetitions. She attacks what for anyone else would be stubborn masses of metal and works until the iron seems to surrender. Then quickly moves to the next exercise and energetically begins again. Within 10 minutes her perspiration causes her dark skin to gleam under the bright lights and the display of her power becomes mesmerizing.
Her attire leaves a memorable impression for she wears practically nothing. Arriving at the gym in a silk robe, she discards it to reveal almost completely an incredible physique. She requires the utility of a firm sports bra to keep her breasts from bouncing uncontrollably. Other than that, she is naked from her sternum to her toes. Her waist is minimal but curves outward to form buttocks which capture the eye, particularly when moving, and legs that seem to be able to lift entire machines, not just the weights attached thereto.
But it is only her arms, which appear less than potently feminine. They are those of a construction worker. Sculpted but rugged, the only hint of femininity being the smooth relatively hairless flesh that covers the powerful muscles beneath.
She notices my intent and envious stare. She smiles knowing that it is by her hand that my physique is the opposite of hers... pearl white... and Rubenesque... with layers of soft but firm fat. As written, my reflection reminds me of the Pillsbury doughboy, but in place of soft moist flour, I am full of breast milk. It belongs not to me but to whomever cares to take the time to extract it. I am just a large vessel, bathed and fed for the purpose of storing the nourishing liquid then giving it up for the amusement of others.
Watching Ms. Powers’ beautiful body arouses me. As I kneel with wrists still secured and thighs spread, I find my hips rotating and like it or not my clitoral bell gives away my thoughts. It has been many days since I’ve been afforded the pleasure of servicing her. My frolicking imagination places my face between her muscled thighs where I lick and suck while her strong arms tug at my hairless head in a symbolic attempt to pull my face within her portal and have my tongue caress the very depths of her vagina.
By the time she finishes, I can feel my juices running to the floor and smell my strong fragrance. Ms. Powers arises from the bench press where hundreds of pounds have been thrust toward the ceiling while I peek between her naked thighs. She approaches with the well-trimmed patch of pubic hair at the level of my eyes. Sweat is pouring down her torso, gathering there then streaming toward the floor.
“I seem to have forgotten my towel,” she remarks as she places my smooth, hairless head between her open hands.
I need no further invitation. As she pushes downward I simultaneously bow with tongue extended. I am granted the privilege of licking her entire wet and overheated body.
I savor her flesh. It has been too long since I last tasted her. And the thought occurs that perhaps, just perhaps, if my tongue pleases, my breasts will be soothingly pumped of the painful engorging liquid.
Long steady laps cover her right calve. I quickly move to her left. Then to her thighs. She patiently stands arms akimbo, on occasion reaching down and utilizing an earlobe like a handle to guide my lips to a particularly sensuous area.
At last I reach her nest. She parts her feet. My tongue dives in and I suck her plump firm outer labia.
My tongue moves onward to her bud. Before I can lick and nibble the sensitive pearl she pushes away my head.
“You know where I like little white girls to visit.”
Yes I do. She turns and presents her magnificent buttocks. I lick and find my way between muscled hillocks. I think of the number of evenings I have spent permitted to explore there without end.
I am so grateful she has returned.
As my tongue enters her forbidden crinkled opening, she speaks.
“I’ve changed my plans somewhat. After watching the videotape, I think I can make you happier with a different course of action. There are too many things about your past that you withheld from me. Your evasiveness will cost you dearly.”
My tongue and lips momentarily freeze in shock, then hungrily resume.
Her concern must be with my experiences aboard ‘The Scarlet Letter’, I conclude. I have no other past except the brief time working at the peep show, of which Ms. Powers is very much aware.
“I’m going to have your electrolysis appointments expedited. I’m having the woman come here every day until every follicle is removed. I’ve been very tolerant in allowing the eyebrows. But you have not been appreciative of my leniency.”
The strange image projected by my shaven eyebrows while aboard ‘The Scarlet Letter’ comes to mind. I shudder with the memory. I humbly continue to lick, but a sadness slowly overcomes me. I have somehow upset the Mistress of the house, my new defacto Lord and Master, and there appears a price to be paid.
