Velvet - A Story of Obedience

Velvet - A Story of Obedience (F/F, F/M, M/F, D/s, BD, Humiliation, Exhibitionism, Toys, Consensual) by frillypanty 2007 ================================================================================ Velvet: A Story of Obedience Chapter 1 - The Beginning - A businesswoman finds happiness in submission ==============================================================================

I met the two of them in an internet chat room. They were quite open about it; after a brief casual exchange, they boldly declared that they were 'looking for a co-operative submissive, prepared to surrender either her or him-self to their instructions'. 'These instructions would', they confirmed at the outset, 'involve the subject in a series of adventures and experiments of a sexual nature'. Maybe here I should explain my background. At the age of 37, I am an ambitious, successful business woman. Five feet nine inches tall, weighing just under nine-and-a-half stone, with a firm slim figure kept in trim by moderate exercise and a healthy diet. I run my own confidential courier service and I'm aware of the fact that most members of my staff regard me as 'something of a martinet'. I pay them well but I expect them to perform; and if they don't I make them painfully aware of the fact. Although by no means leading a celibate life I choose to remain emotionally 'unattached'. Their frank declaration, after an initial period of contemplation, intrigued me; and I began to fantasies what it would feel like to be controlled, for once, rather than always being the director – particularly in respect of 'sexual adventures and experiments'. That last thought already began to fuel my arousal. I could fell a distinct pulse deep in my vagina, my nipples and aureole began to stiffen and tingle and my clitty began to expand and tighten. I was aware of a dampening in the crotch of my panties. With my fingers figuratively crossed I responded. "What would it involve, exactly?" "You're still there," was the reply, "we thought we might have frightened you off! If you seriously want to pursue this, we'll show you. Have you got a video link camera?" "Yes." "Set it up." I did and after a short while a picture appeared on my screen – Ebb and Flo. They were both dressed alike, each in a satin corselet trimmed across the top and at the hem with soft, froth of lace. Six satin suspender straps, three each side supported, lace topped nylon stockings and both wore plain three inch court shoes. The woman I quickly came to know as Flo – obviously a sobriquet – who appeared to be about my own height and maybe a year or two older, was in shades of green that complimented her auburn hair, green eyes and pale, slightly freckled, complexion. Her firm strawberry tipped breasts thrust out over the top of her costume and her neatly trimmed pubic bush, a flaming match for her hair, was framed by the frothy lace hem, the satin suspender-straps and her lace stocking tops. Ebb, a fair skinned slender blond some three inches shorter than Flo and about five years younger, was dressed in shades of blue. Ebb's costume was completed by a pair of delicate lacy satin panties, also in blue, that inadequately constrained a rampant erection. Strangely, the disfiguration of his panties and absence of any bosom did nothing to detract from the femininity of Ebb's appearance. I was to learn later that, fully dressed 'en-femme', his femininity was unquestionable. There was a similarity about their faces that suggested a link – siblings or cousins perhaps; and I was vaguely aware that Ebb, at least, seemed familiar to me. I was to learn later just how familiar! "Okay," was the next text, "stand up and train the camera on your self." Anticipating what would come next I experienced a degree of panic, which I stilled by the thought that I had agreed to the exchange and, anyway, there was no diminution in my arousal. My body was ready even my mind was a bit reluctant. I wasn't wrong; there followed step by step instructions to removed my blouse and bra' and to train the camera on my, by now bullet tipped, breasts; followed, after an interval during which the two of them examined my breasts, by instructions to remove my skirt, underskirt and panties. "We're glad to see that you wear stockings and suspenders; not those ghastly tights," came the next comment. "Keep those on and train the camera up between your legs. Highly excited by now, and aware that my lower lips were salivating fast, I did as I was told, opening my legs slightly to allow an unrestricted view of my own vagina to appear on the screen. It was a strange experience, that first time, to see my most intimate feature spread out for others to view. I'd bared my breasts in public before, on continental beaches, but this was the first time anyone other than a chosen lover or an occasional doctor had had such visual access to my vagina. Strange it might have been but it was somehow highly satisfying, particularly as I was responding to the directions of others. The duration of their inspection was even longer; then the next instruction came. "Sit back in your chair with your legs apart, train the camera on your body and masturbate – slowly!" And so I did, as confirmed by the images that appeared on my own screen, as well as theirs, and the screens of those to whom they chose to allow a link, and for all I know anyone else who managed to 'hack in' to our private exchange. Despite doing my best to obey their dictate, and despite the slow rhythm I used, my fingers had barely touched my supercharged organs, my engorged labia and swollen throbbing clitty, before I exploded in an orgasmic flood that swept through my body and drenched my fingers, thighs, suspender-straps, stocking tops and the seat of my chair with my deluge and left me feeling weak and exposed. "Very nice," the computer clicked, "although much too quick. You were told to masturbate slowly! You'll have to learn to do better than that, to control your feelings until given permission to complete. Remember, you are our plaything and must subject yourself to our guidance. Your own needs and feeling are secondary – in all things. Now, use your fingers and your tongue to clean up your quim and your thighs." Completely under their spell by now, I did as I was bid and used my fingers to gather as much of my own musky, honey-dew as I could transferring them to my mouth to lick and savor the taste. It wasn't the first time I'd tasted my own orgasm. Curiosity had driven me to milk my own vagina before and some of my female lovers and I had held each others flows long enough in our mouths to share in deep kisses – something I'd never done with any of my male lovers, although I had in the past fed them with their own 'cum'. "Okay," the computer continued, "We are prepared to continue with this on the condition that you subjugate yourself completely to out direction. Any departure from any of our dictates will result in immediate cessation of our relationship. You will at all times await our call; at no time will you initiate any exchange; and you will comply with instant and total obedience. From now on you will be known as 'Velvet' and as such you will be in front of your computer to receive instructions between midnight and one am each day, with your camera link in place and functioning. During tomorrow you will purchase a minimum of four costumes like ours, although yours will be in shades of yellow, which you will wear when you are awaiting our contact. Like Flo, you will only wear panties when you are 'on', and you may be required to prove it. If this is clear and you wish to continue, please respond with 'accepted: Velvet'." It took me several minutes to decide before the massage went out. "Accepted: Velvet." And I wondered even then what I'd let myself into. I soon discovered ...

Velvet: A Story of Obedience

Chapter 2 - Early Training - Velvet moves on from her initial contact

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It wasn't until the fourth night that they contacted me again. During the intervening period I'd dutifully sat, as ordered, in front of my computer between mid-night and one am, clad only in a satin corselet stockings and high heels, with my video link camera trained on my exposed body and with my computer open to any casual interrogation under my net sobriquet of 'Velvet'. Again by their instruction I wasn't allowed to converse with such casual visitor and, again in compliance, I had to masturbate myself to climax upon opening, twice more during the hour and again before closure. It was a new experience for me. As my own boss, and owner of a discrete courier service, I'm regarded as a bit of a martinet by my staff and, definitely, I'm the one in control. And the same heretofore had been the case with my private life – both social and sex. Somehow, I'd succumbed to Ebb and Flo's suggestion of enrolling myself as their submissive slave after entering an internet chat room those few nights previously – and I was already aware that something inside me responded positively to the thought of their domination; hence my passive acceptance of their command to exhibit myself in this way. "Velvet," the message read, "go and get your panties, those that match your costume of course, and return! Ebb and Flo." I did as I was bid and returned to my computer desk, and the range of the camera, carrying my panties. "Put them on and masturbate to climax, coming in your panties;" was the preemptory command. Meekly, I bent to step into my pale yellow gauzy, lacy panties, pull them up around my hitherto naked thighs and sat with my legs parted in full view of the camera. Gently at first, I started to tease the already engorged [and easily discernable through the fragile transparency] lips of my sex – all clearly visible on the screen in front of me and that of anyone Ebb and Flo had allowed to gain and maintain access. Gradually my fingers began to find a quicker rhythm and a deeper penetration as I sought to assuage the throbbing, welling sensation inside me and to grant release to the stiffening thrusting stalk of my clitty. In no time at all, it seemed to me, with my nipples by now standing out like bullet tips and my aureole bubbling and flushing with arousal, my climax arrived and I came in great waves that flooded my panties with my own honey-musk and saturated my thighs, my stocking tops, my suspender straps and the seat of my chair. Giving me little time to recover my equanimity the next command arrived. "Take your panties off and use them to clean yourself." Again without demure, I did so. Still in full view of myself and all and any watchers. My panties, already drenched with my outpourings degenerated into a soggy, sorry rag. "Lift your panties to face, breath in the aroma, Wipe your face in them – slowly and completely, and then suck as much of the moisture out of them as you can." Docilely, I carried out my instructions. It wasn't the first time I'd tasted my own climactic flood. In the past I'd milked my own sex with my fingers, after masturbation, and I had at least one female lover with whom I'd shared love juices, by holding one-an-other's in our mouths to share with our kisses. And I'd lapped and swallowed both female and male outpouring on many occasions. But it was the first time I'd ever sucked my own panties. The somewhat strange combination of my flood, with the dressing of my previously unworn panties, was by no means unpleasant – a sweet rather pungent mixture. With my panties still in my mouth I received the next inquiry. "Is your camera capable of remote action?" "Yes." "Filming as you go, put you panties back on, dress in a formal blouse and costume, over a full length slip, and go into your bathroom. Run a bath and step into it, fully clothed. Gradually remove all your clothes and bathe yourself intimately and properly. Before leaving the bath, shave your pudenda and labia clean. Return to the computer and display your newly shaven pussy."

After stooping to resume my panties, I carried my camera into my bedroom and set it up to catch my image as I dressed as instructed; carried it into the bathroom to film my bath filling; my fully clothed immersion; my gradual unclothing; my painstaking and comprehensive toilette; and my thorough depilation of my pubic bush. On my return to my computer, the resultant baby soft and conspicuous gash of my lower lips surprised me – I'd never felt so naked before, even exposed to the camera as I'd masturbated on demand, the presence of my bush had somehow provided an element of camouflage that was no longer there. The image of my naked quim, splashed across my screen, brought a moment of doubt to my mind. 'Was I really being wise, in pursuing my liaison? I could cut it at any time'. It was only a moment, I wasn't given enough time to dwell on it before my next instructions arrived ... and these instructions made me quail, but set up a imp in me that insisted that I follow them to the best of my ability, in anticipation of the arousal and thrill they promised to incite in me. The next morning, a Saturday, I awoke early and dressed and prepared in strict accordance with my directions. As I made my way through the underground network to Oxford Street I was acutely aware of my nakedness under my light summer weight wrap around skirt. Like most women, I'd occasionally gone out without panties before but only when attending parties or social events that called for tight formal dresses, the lines of which would be disturbed by the outline of any underwear. This was different; over-ground there was an early summer breeze that was enough to catch the hem of my skirt, and raise it, and the through draft on the underground platforms seemed particularly virulent that morning. And I was under strict instructions not to attempt to hold my skirt down. It was enough, too, to flatten my light summer blouse, held tight to my body by the waist band of my skirt, against my braless breasts, emphasizing my already well stimulated nipples. Upon arrival in the shopping street, my first task was to choose a shoe shop that had young men serving. Making my selection, pausing almost to offer up a short prayer for courage, I entered and, catching the eye of the youngest male assistant there, sat down to choose a pair of shoes – asking him to fetch several models in my size. Whilst he went off to retrieve the shoes I surreptitiously re-arranged the folds of my skirt to allow the two sides to slide back across my thighs. As he knelt before me I raised my foot to enable him to slide a shoe onto my foot, allowing my skirt to part even further and giving him ample opportunity to glance up and see my doubly naked, knickerless and shaven, quim. From the way his body started, the flush that quickly suffused his face and neck, and the bulge that almost immediately appeared in the front of his trousers, it was obvious that he had taken the opportunity offered. My level, expressionless gaze cut off any involuntary noise and I kept him there, at my feet, trying on various shoes, with my nakedness before his eyes, for the best part of half-an-hour as I discussed fit color and fashion with him, and made him try different shoes more than once. Eventually, I rewarded him by buying the two most expensive models, and gave him a discrete smile as I handed him an extra tip 'for service', and left to fulfill my next task. The first branch of Next was only a few steps down the road, entering I chose a flimsy, lacy thong in pale pink, decorated with tiny crimson flowers, and a line of tiny crimson bows down the front panel. I took them to the girl on the cash desk and after paying for them, in the hearing of a couple of other women lining up to pay for their choices, I asked her if she would mind removing the price tag as I'd come out in such a rush that morning that I'd forgotten to put any knickers on and needed 'to wear them now'. Startled, and nearly as red faced as the young man who'd served me in the shoe shop, she hastily complied and watched in even greater amazement as I took them from her, bent to step into them and pull them up around me – disrupting my skirt as I did so. As my skirt fell more or less back into place I turned and left the shop, and walked down the street to the second branch of Next to repeat the performance – this time choosing a pair of panties of the same pattern, with added bows at the hip. At the third branch, I purchased a pair of matching French knickers; this time I managed to line up at a till serviced by a young male assistant and, like his male predecessor, managed to kindle a quite promising erection in addition to his blushes. I was now wearing three pairs of knickers, as ordered. I anticipated that the penultimate part of my task was going to prove rather more difficult but, first, there was another stage. I walked the length of Oxford Street to Charing Cross Road, down Charing Cross Road until I found Lisle Street and there, as promised, was a sex shop. It took me a little while to screw up my courage and enter. I suppose I expected a seedy 'hole-in-the-corner' atmosphere. What I encountered was a mixture of Ann Summers, a thriving magazine outlet and a retailer of small electrical goods – almost clinically clean, with a thriving clientele and courteous staff. After I got my bearings I approached a young man at the counter and, as instructed, informed him that I wanted to 'buy a dildo, a vibrating dildo'. Nonchalantly, as though this was any every-day occurrence, which it probably was, he drew me to a display cabinet and proceeded to explain the differing merits of the various products he had available; and I eventually settled for a particular model to which, on his advice, I added a pot of lubricant. The rest of the customers seemed not to find anything strange about my purchase or the exchanges that lead up to it. Leaving the shop after some twenty minutes, I boarded a tube at Leicester Square and made my way back to Bond Street. The problem of fulfilling my next assignment returned. An idea struck me. After ordering and consuming a Starbucks coffee and Danish, I paid a visit to their toilet – barely being able to resist the temptation to 'bring myself off', as I had been instructed not to do. Instead, after relieving myself, I took my nail scissors out of my shoulder bag and almost severed the waist bands of my three pairs of knickers. As an after thought, I also split both the side seams of my panties almost to the top. Walking westwards, I threaded my way through the subways at Marble Arch and set out across Hide Park. On that glorious, if somewhat breezy day, the park was pretty crowded with visitors and locals alike. At the bridge over the Serpentine, I stopped to look over the parapet into the water below. Taking a deep breath to inflate my diaphragm I managed to slip my hand under my skirt between my body and the parapet, and wrench the waist band of my French knickers snapping it to allow my knickers to fall around my ankles. Ostensibly absorbed in whatever I was studying, even glancing back over the parapet as I began to move away, I managed to carefully step out of my knickers and leave them discarded in the side of the path, apparently totally unaware. Continuing my journey southward, I managed to shed my second pair of knickers by the Albert Memorial where a group of Japanese tourist watched amazed and amused, as I continued my walk seemingly unaware that my panties had fallen to the ground and I'd left them there. I was glad that I'd had the after thought that made me split the side seams, I'm not sure they'd have slipped off with anything like the ease they did, otherwise. I left my third pair of knickers in Brompton Road, outside Harrods where, again, an appreciative audience of tourists and locals watched me walk on seemingly unaware that my thong had slipped off and was left lying on the pavement behind me. Before completing the final part of my instructions, I treated myself to one of Harrods 'afternoon teas', again completely knickerless under my flowing summer skirt with my rigid nipples now thrusting hard against the confines of my blouse, itself confined and pulled tight by the waist band of my skirt. Leaving Harrods I joined the tube at Knightsbridge to make my way back to Maida Vale via a change at Piccadilly Circus. My body ached for the release of my own fingers. My breasts and nipples felt near to explosion and my labia and clitty craved attention – but self relief was forbidden me. Feigning absorption in a magazine I'd picked up at the station, I continued to sit on the tube as the train stopped at Piccadilly until I judged the doors were about to close. At the last moment I leapt up and lunged for the opening; as I'd already released the fastening of my wrap around skirt I expected to leave my skirt behind me as I dashed for the platform. Somehow, the material clung around me but, as I barely cleared the narrowing gap without the doors touching me and rebounding open, the closing doors fastened on the now trailing material and my skirt was whipped away from me as the train gathered speed away from the platform – leaving me stood on a busy Piccadilly Circus platform dressed only in shoes, stockings, a suspender-belt and a blouse that reached only a couple of inches below my navel, my shaven pubis, by bare bottom and the slit and engorged lips of my shaven quim displayed to all the people around me. After what seemed an age but was probably in reality less than a minute, as I stood on the platform counterfeiting bewilderment and panic, but in truth stimulated beyond belief by the experience, a woman in her early fifty's wrapped her light summer coat around me and hastily bid me to 'take it and get home as quickly as you can'. That night, or rather early the next morning, I reported the outcome of my adventures to Ebb and Flo; only to be told that they were already aware of my compliance to their instructions 'you were filmed' I was told. "You may now take out your dildo and use it to bring yourself off," I was told. Of course, I regarded this as a command not a warrant to please myself – although in obeying it I was pleasing myself as my body, as tightly aroused as a bow string, cried out for the relief it had been craving in increasing measure since I'd left my flat knickerless and braless that morning. Applying the lubricant I switched on and, as advised, began to tease my labia with the softly vibrating instrument. The sensation was beyond anything I'd encountered before. No mere man, however proficient his masculinity, had ever been able to raise the delirium that suffused my body; and none of my female lovers and I had ever used any such toy before. In no time I had the apparatus vibrating and buzzing at its maximum speed, and I was plunging it in and out of my font – my vaginal wall muscles and my exultant clitty snatching and contracting on and around its pulsating rigidity. I'd never before had such an extended orgasm. I came and came and came and came again, my honey-musk flooding and flooding out. And all on camera of course, for the benefit of my controllers and any one else to whom they'd cared to grant access. Eventually, I recovered and, as directed, used my fingers to milk as much of my outpourings as I could and licked and sucked my vibrator clean. "You will, of course, keep your pudenda shaved," was their final text, before they signed off.

Velvet: A Story of Obedience Chapter 3 - Instructions and a Revelation - Velvet's voyage of discovery continues

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I prepared carefully that morning in accordance with the instructions I'd received from Ebb and Flo the previous evening ... or rather, to be accurate, early that same morning. I met Ebb and Flo in an internet chat room and they became my mentors; awaking in me an unsuspected submissive desire to be dominated. I think it was their absolute and more-or-less immediate assumption of authority, coupled with their equally unquestionable presumption of my obedience that led me to submit myself to them - quite alien to my forceful 'workaday life' personality where I was the one in control, and ensured that all my staff members were well aware of it. In accordance with their desire ... command I had sat myself at my computer between midnight and one am, as I did each night, with my live video link camera trained on me, clad as instructed only in lace trimmed corselet, stockings and court shoes, legs parted and camera carefully placed to ensure that my bare breasts and my shaven vagina were clearly visible, awaiting their convenience. As I waited their notice, again at their instruction, my live image was available to anyone interested enough to sign in - but I was not allowed to communicate with any casual visitor except at their express instruction. So far, until that last contact, their instructions had all been restricted to activities confined within my own flat accessible to live video link with my computer - masturbation, use of sex toys, eating my own saturated panties, etc. - and to displaying myself outside among strangers. This time it was different. This morning I was not allowed to empty my bladder before leaving for work. Additionally, under a semi transparent blouse and equally flimsy bra', my nipples were rouged and clearly visible beneath my open jacket - purposely open sufficiently at all times to uncover the points of my breasts to facilitate notice. Much as I tried to maintain an air of total unconcern as I walked to Maida Vale station, on my tube journey to Holborn and my walk to my offices, the pressure on my bladder alone was enough to keep me shifting my posture, discreet as I might try to be. At least that pressure kept my mind off my clearly discernable nipples - for the most part. By the time I reached my office I was bursting, as the saying goes, but I was still under strict instruction not to visit the toilet but to let nature take its course; as publicly as possible. It was nearing mid-morning before the inevitable happened, when I was standing talking to three of my staff in the foreground of the general office. Suddenly I became aware of a warm trickle against the inside of my thigh, a trickle that quickly became a flow, a flow that became a deluge that resounded on the carpet below and between my feet as my bladder could withstand the pressure no more. My panties, my stockings, my underskirt and skirt, my shoes, my legs and my feet were all inundated in the flood that poured out of me into the rapidly increasing pool on the floor of the office. The relief of 'letting go' at last outweighed my own embarrassment, at least initially, but the shock and embarrassment that showed on the faces of my staff members, two male and one female, already struggling to appear not to be looking at the imprint of my rouge enhanced nipples on the tight fabric of my blouse, told its own story. Still acting as instructed, I turned and hurried down the stairs to the cleaner's room to return to the general office bearing a wash-bucket and mop and, still attired in my saturated and by now rather smelly clothes, began to attack the waterlogged carpet fending off all offers of help on the basis that 'I did it, I'd better clean it up'. Only after I'd made some attempt at dissipating the soggy patch did I return to the cleaner's cupboard to replace the bucket and mop and take a light nylon overall off the back of the door and retire to the ladies room. A sudden hush greeted me as I entered. The three girls stood there had obviously been 'discussing' my disgrace; I gave them a somewhat baleful glance but said nothing. Without waiting for their departure I stripped off up to the waist and threw my clothes into the janitor's sink in the corner. Then, crossing to the row of wash basins, I gave myself a thorough wash - managing to display my shaven condition as I did so. Finally, I buttoned the overall around me and re-crossed the floor to the sink to wash out my clothes as well as could, leaving them hanging on a 'make shift' line I managed to rig up between a vertical water pipe and the top of one of the toilet cubicles. The overall gave me some measure of protection, but it was only semi-opaque at best, and I was aware that my nakedness was reasonably easily discernable through and beneath its inadequate veil. Back at my desk I became gradually but increasingly aware of the arousal building up in me. Heretofore, the pressure on my bladder had subdued most other feelings, but now the pulses in the pit of my stomach, the swelling and hardening of my clitty, echoed in the throb and thrust of my breasts and nipples, and the involuntary tightening and relaxing of the muscles in the wall of my vagina, began to advertise my reaction. But I was forbidden self-relief! My computer screen, always live, flashed the arrival of a new message. "Okay! Press the link button. Ebb." Dutifully, I pressed the link button displayed in the bottom corner and the screen cleared to display a picture of me stood on Piccadilly Circus underground platform clad in a short-waisted blouse, stockings, suspender-belt and shoes, and nothing else, my shaven pudenda and the tip of my labia clearly on view, clutching the bag that I knew had contained two pairs of shoes and a vibrator; the culmination of the instructions I'd had to comply with the previous Saturday. "Press the link again." I was instructed. Again I complied. This time to watch a video of the highlights of my Saturday escapades: from leaving my flat with my wrap around skirt flapping about my thighs and revealing glimpses of my knickerless buttocks; visiting a shoe shop in Oxford Street where, clearly through the shop window, I could be seen with my parted skirt front falling away from my thighs and my foot and leg raised to allow the young male assistant to fit shoes; visiting the three branches of Next and, again through the window of each, buying and putting on three separate pairs of knickers; losing my knickers pair by pair at various London locations; visiting a sex shop in Lisle Street; and, finally losing my skirt on the station platform. Well, I'd been informed that same night that I had been filmed. I just wasn't expecting to view the result on my own office computer - maybe my own private screen at home, but definitely not in my office! "Press the link again." I was told. This time I was greeted by a picture of Ebb, dressed in his familiar corselet, stockings, shoes and lacy panties. As I watched the picture gradually resolved itself into a picture of my IT expert; a man a couple of years younger, and two or three inches shorter, than me - slender, blond haired, fresh faced. Ebb's image on my computer screen, during the small hours of the mornings had always puzzled me. Recognition had always hovered in the back of my mind but I'd never made the connection. And I knew that Ebb [not the name I knew him by professionally, of course] lived with his sister in a large house in Holland Park they'd jointly inherited from their parents, both of whom had been Harley Street specialists. I knew now that Flo must be his sister; to whom I had refused the PA post for which she'd applied, some nine months previously, on the grounds of 'inadequate experience'. The dangers of my strange compulsion suddenly hit home - a compulsion that had led me to agree to submitting myself to their domination 'for adventures and experiments of a sexual nature', as their initial approach had openly stated. It had all seemed nothing but harmless fun, appealing to a subconscious desire somewhere within me that needed to experience a role reversal, and be dominated instead of dominant for once and maybe even to assure myself that, at 37 years old, I wasn't yet beyond novel sexual experiences. Rapidly coming to the conclusion that I should and must end it immediately, and sack Ebb to boot, I started to compose a message that would bring the whole thing to an abrupt end. But, even as my decision was made and initiated, a new message appeared. "Clear your screen." In a humor of anger mixed with a fair degree of trepidation I did so, only to find that my wall paper was now the picture of me stood, exposed, on the station platform. "You can't erase this" the next message read, even as I started to try do so. "Should you try, this background will immediately be transposed, eradicably, onto the rest of our computers. Tonight you'll leave with me and come home to meet Flo. Remain dressed as you are until we leave - you can change back for the journey. Flo is expecting us. Should you decide not to cooperate, in addition to the general distribution of this picture, copies of the video will be circulated amongst the staff and to all of our favored clients. Ebb." I didn't get much work done for the rest of the day, spending the time vacillating between: contemplation of my own foolishness at having succumbed so readily to being coerced into such flagrant exhibitionism and, finally, humiliating myself in front of my staff by wetting myself so sensationally in public; and trying to discover a way out of my situation before it became 'to late'. My endeavors in that last respect came to nothing although, had I been prepared to endure a period of personal humiliation amongst my employees and for the adverse reaction of some of my clients, I might still have carried out my immediate resolve. But I wasn't, it wasn't in my nature to accept the humiliating admission of my own foolishness, it wasn't part of the image I had of myself or of the image I'd taken pains to impress upon my staff. Stupidly, I'd assumed from the beginning of this strange entanglement that, although ostensibly submissive, I was really the one in control of the situation, and could terminate it at will. Now I was only too painfully aware that I wasn't ... either in control, or in a position to terminate anything! Towards the evening I went back to retrieve my clothes, now more or less dry if somewhat disheveled, to find as I suppose I'd already anticipated, that my panties had disappeared. To dispirited and nervous to care much, let alone make any inquiries, I struggled into the rest of my attire and, still knickerless, set out with Ebb to Holland Park. Ebb opened the door of the Regency House and ushered me in. Inside the period front door I found myself in an almost clinically clean and light passage, sectioned off at about mid-length with a full height, full width glass screen. Between the front door and the screen, set out on both sides of the hall opposite one-an-other, were a regency chair, a matching period wardrobe, a hat and coat stand and an ornate pier glass. Ebb stopped in front of the left hand glass and carefully removed his jacket, shoes, socks, jeans and shirt, to reveal him self clad in a set of luxurious scarlet, lace trimmed satin lingerie - camisole, suspender-belt and panties - and matching stockings. Stooping as he did so he removed his panties. Folding his discarded clothes carefully, he opened the wardrobe door and placed them on a shelf above the main hanging space. Just as carefully, he withdrew a pair of French knickers that matched his bra' and suspender-belt and stooping again, stepped into them to pull them up around his flanks. The helmet and part of the shaft of his cock hung down his right thigh below the lace hem of his loose knicker leg. Next, he added a short, figure hugging, matching slip, a tight 'above the knee' skirt in dog-tooth grey, a white linen, high necked, long sleeved blouse - with a jabot at the throat and a tiny frill of lace at the cuffs, and a pair of scarlet court shoes and a wide scarlet belt. Confronted with his new persona I had to admit to myself, grudgingly in the circumstances, that the femininity of Ebb's image was flawless. Ebb spoke, almost the first interchange we'd had since leaving the office, "take your clothes off. You'll find suitable replacements in the other wardrobe." Completely cowed, under Ebb's steady gaze, I removed my bedraggled attire and opened the wardrobe to place it carefully on a shelf as I'd seen him do - as seemed judicious. The 'suitable replacements' proved to be a can-can dancers costume, sans bra' and panties of course and with the skirts and petticoats all carefully tailored to a minimal depth below the waist band, in the front, leaving my shaven pubis uncovered. Additionally, the frill be-decked blouse was scooped below my now naked breasts. The outfit was completed with lace topped stockings, a lacy suspender-belt, almost impossibly high heeled shoes, long lace gloves and a feathered headdress that I had some difficulty fitting over my hair in something like an acceptable style - but again, I thought it judicious to at least try. Once Ebb had made some adjustment to his hair and applied a touch or two of make-up, increasing still further the illusion of his femininity, he inspected me critically and led me through a door in the glass screen to a side door that opened onto a wash room and instructed me to 'clean that muck off your face and your breasts' and stood at the open door of the room as, under his humiliating gaze, I obeyed a sudden and urgent desire to relieve myself before washing away all traces of my mornings make-up. Once he was satisfied with my ablutions, he led me back up the hall through the glass panel and sat me on one of the chairs to apply powder, rouge and lipstick. The image that finally greeted me from the pier glass was that of a rouged and painted trollop, her breasts spilling out completely from her blouse and her font on display to the world. Preparation complete, I was taken back along the full length of the hall up a flight of stairs to a first floor landing and into a large lounge that extended to the rear of the house and, through a pair of open French windows, onto a balcony beyond, that had views into, and from, Holland Park itself. And it was there, on that balcony, in the still full daylight of an early summer evening, in view of neighbors sitting on their own balconies and gardens, and with the park below still populated with evening pedestrian traffic, that Ebb led me to his sister. Flo looked at me critically as I stood on the threshold of the French windows and motioned Ebb to bring me forward. Her appearance wasn't a surprise after seeing her 'on screen' regularly and, in any case, I now remembered her from her interview. About my own height with a slightly fuller, although trim and healthy figure, her abundant auburn hair tumbled around her pale, slightly freckled but otherwise clear complexion. Flo was dressed in a rich, silken kimono, in different shades of green and russet that complemented her coloring, edged and trimmed in sable. She sat in a long seated cane chair on tapestry cushions that echoed her kimono - but in paler, almost faded shades. "So, you came then," she said, as though I'd had a choice. "Tell me, do you think you have enough experience to fill the vacancy? Although, as the only applicant, I suppose we'll have to make do with you, even if we have to accept that you'll need a degree of training - how much training is, of course, up to you; how quickly you can learn, I mean." "As its Velvet's first evening with us I think we can release her from the responsibility of preparing our evening meal, don't you?" Flo interrogated her brother. "Perhaps you'd do the honors instead." Without comment Ebb withdrew and left me facing his sister. Flo beckoned me forward with a crooked finger until I stood before her. There, in full view of any interested neighbors or bystanders, she slid her hand up between my thighs and began to tease my labia - conjuring up, I confess, an immediate salutatory response. As her caress ceased and she slid her finger tips up over my mound, producing a faint rasping sensation rather tan a sound, her brows creased into a frown. "Dear me," she said, almost to herself, then, "stubble. I thought you were told to keep yourself clean shaven! When did you last shave?" Reluctantly, and with massively increasing trepidation, I admitted that it was three days previously. With no apparent effort on her part, in short order I found myself sprawled face down across her lap, the trailing skirts of my costume flung upwards over my back and Flo's hand repeatedly striking my bare, unprotected bottom. After she'd delivered in excess of a dozen blows, Flo wrenched me upright and sent me inside to find her brother and ask him to supply me with hot water, a towel, a shaving brush, cream, a razor, talcum powder and a stool, to bring back outside so she could shave me herself, to ensure compliance with her order. Inside, through the lounge I found a kitchen where Ebb was busy over his preparation. In halting, shamefaced term I explained my errand. It was Ebb's turn to run his hand over my unprotected mound again raising a rasping sensation. Spinning me round, he raised my skirts and inspected my pink and bruised bottom. "I'm not surprised," he said. "You'll have to be a lot more diligent in future, if you don't want protect your bottom." Equipped as ordered, I retuned to the balcony and, mustering the best grace I could, I sat as still as I could on the stool in front of Flo, trying not top let my smarting bottom make me fidget, my legs apart, to enable her to shave me to her satisfaction; aware as before that we had an appreciative audience whilst she did so. When I returned from emptying the basin I found that Flo had loosened her kimono, to display her magnificent naked body, with its tight tip-tilted breasts, flat stomach and neatly trimmed auburn bush. Again I have to confess, that I felt my stomach clench, my breasts and nipples burgeon and my clitty start to throb and expand and my mouth and lower lips water at the sight of her perfection. When I was given the order 'pleasure me, no fingers', it was with no feeling or show of reluctance that I knelt to accomplish my task. The taste of her sweet font was everything I'd imagined it might be, during the times I'd fantasized about her exposed sexuality in front of my screen. And as my busy lips, teeth and tongue, brought her gradually up to and over the point of climax, on three distinct occasions, the delicious honey-musk of her orgasmic flood was everything I'd envisaged. 'Maybe', I thought, 'there could be compensations'.

Velvet: A Story of Obedience Chapter 4 - Absolute Submission and a New Personality - Velvet's experiences in being dominated continue

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Velvet: A Story of Obedience Chapter 4 Part 1

Neither of us needed a reminder that out Mistress would soon be home, or that we'd better be ready when she did arrive. The consequences of our not being prepared to open the door as she climbed the few entrance steps were only to well ingrained in us. How things have changed since I was my own boss, sole owner and manager of my own discrete courier company, assured, positive and always totally in control; not only of my business, but of my private life too. I'd met Ebb and Flo in an internet chat room and had allowed myself to be drawn into their web of domination – assuring myself, at the time, that a little 'foray' into the world of being a submissive would make a stimulating change from my usual 'high powered' existence, also it would be reassuring to confirm that, at 37, I was still capable of appreciating new experiences 'of a sexual nature.' Besides, as I told myself, in reality I'd be the one in control and could terminate any relationship at any time. How wrong I was! In no way was I in control, and I certainly wasn't in a position to terminate anything! Now, some eight months later, here I was, subject to a totally dominant Mistress, with a rather unexpected companion in misfortune alongside me, my own company to all intents and purposes taken from me, my every moment and my mode of dress prescribed for me. Since that first evening spent in what instantly became my new home I'd learned the true extent of my subjugation. After that first evening when Ebb prepared the evening meal, it became the joint task of me and my fellow maid to undertake all meal preparation and serving, all cleaning and laundry and the task of keeping the extensive rear garden and the small front plot immaculate. Any failure or short fall in the standards expected evoked instant punishment. From that first encounter, when Flo had quickly and comprehensively chastised my naked buttocks in full view of any interested neighbors, for the misdemeanor of not keeping my pussy adequately shaved – and having her shave it for me, still in full view – I was subjected to constant physical discipline to reinforce the consequences of failure to carry out any allotted task with both expedition and accuracy. Sometimes the chastisement was, similarly to that on the first occasion, delivered by my Mistress using her hand, sometimes by the use of an instrument; the business side of a hair brush, a riding crop or a wooden paddle; however delivered it always left my poor abused buttocks sore and bruised and, not infrequently, striped. And that was the least of it. As I quickly learned, the extensive basement of the house had been converted into a three room suite. Apart from a flight of internal stairs leading down to an access passage a large banqueting hall spread across the rear of the property – in turn leading through a pair of French windows and up a flight of shallow steps, into the garden. The front basement, also accessed from the stairs and passage, was divided into what at first inspection appeared to be two gymnasiums. In reality the equipment contained in the middle section was designed to inflict varying degrees of punishment and humiliation on anyone unfortunate to incur the wrath of my Mistress – and since my arrival in the house that was usually, although not exclusively, me! Principal amongst these instruments of torture was a wall frame to which the victim could be shackled in a variety of ways; usually by the wrists and ankles with legs and arms spread akimbo and with the head held back by a neck brace with, if the controller so decreed, a metal or a leather gag inserted or a leather hood encasing the whole head – sometimes both. The whole frame could be rotated through 360° to enable the victim's body to be held horizontally, at an angle or wholly inverted. There was a variety of nipple, clitty and labial clamps available, and a selection of vaginal and butt plugs – all of which I had had the doubtful privilege of sampling from first hand! The only things I'd not encountered, for obvious reasons, were the adjustable metal penis sheaths! Other instruments in the chamber included: an adjustable, mobile pillory; a mobile whipping post; and, a vaulting horse from which, at the touch of a button, an inbuilt leather dildo eight inches long and slightly off vertical, rose from the top surface. The same button, pushed again, set up a continuous vibration through the horse – including, of course, the leather penis. The stocks, the whipping post and the horse could be, and had been, moved into the banquet room when the occasion demanded it. In addition to our menial duties we were, of course, also expected to be always available to our Mistress for the purposes of physical, intellectual and sexual diversion. And to undertake any and all necessary duties when our Mistress entertained – including pleasuring her guests in any way they chose. Of course, any failure to comply with any such demands merited immediate correction in the presence of the guest who hade been discommoded. When Mistress was out I had to submit to the direction and discipline of our Mistress's other vassal; otherwise we were both held completely in her thrall. And now here she was. We could hear the clack of her high heels on the steps outside as we stepped forward to open the door and stand, one each side with our gazes respectfully lowered, to greet her entry. Ebb no longer maintained the charade of a masculine exterior over feminine underwear for work. Ever since I'd signed the power of attorney that gave him effective control of my business, the morning after my first arrival at the house he shared with his sister Flo, my fellow vassal, he'd completely embraced his predilection. Assuming total femininity he now dressed and acted in his feminine persona – a forceful one at that. What his fellow workers, my previous employees, or the customers made of it I've no idea. As a vassal I had no expectation of being consulted in any way, or of ever discussing such matters. Nominally the company was still mine, in part at least, and the company accountant continued to pay a substantial premium into my bank account and to control my tax affairs at remove, through Ebb. Ebb had produced the necessary completed forms for my signature at an early hour on the morning after my initiation. Resistance on my part had led to an immediate introduction to the main article of correction – and I spent a prolonged spell, stripped naked, strapped to the rack in an inverted position, with clamps applied to my nipples, clitty and labia, clad only a hood that blanked out all sound and light, with a gag in my mouth and painful plugs inserted into my two remaining orifices. At the third time of partial release I surrendered and signed the forms. I could resist no longer. The pain was only part of it; the complete isolation brought about by the deprivation hood was overwhelmingly horrific as was the sense of utter humiliation as my bodily functions continued, leading me to both urinate and defecate – despite the plugs. Both of which secretions obeyed the laws of gravity and spread downwards over my inverted body. I also signed letters to be circulated to all my staff, with extra copies for the company's books and for submission to Companies House, explaining my withdrawal as a serious and long-term disposition justifying my immediate retirement and my sudden decision to nominate Ebb as my Managing and Executive Director – taking him into a share of the business as I did so. Surprisingly, Mistress did not require us to spend all of our time naked, or even with our essential femininity on open display. We were expected to be suitable clad in a matching set of bra', knickers of some kind, suspender-belt and stockings under an outer costume appropriate to the time of day and the task in hand. The style of knickers depended largely upon Mistresses whim and might take the form of loose legged French knickers, panties or thongs, but in all cases they were of lace bedecked silk, satin or nylon with the rest of our lingerie to match, and dark enough to be discernible through our much paler outer wear. At Mistress Ebb's entry I was dressed in a pale lemon, gauzy, translucent short skirted afternoon dress over burnt, gold lacy nylon thong and matching, bra' suspenders and stockings – with pale lemon court shoes , to match my dress. Flo was dressed in similar style in shades of emerald and pale apple green. Mistress barely glanced at us as she handed me her jacket and Flo her clutch bag, her shoes she'd immediately kicked off, as she entered. 'Is everything prepared for this evening's function?' She enquired – although there was no need; we'd never have dared to do anything other than be completely ready. 'Of course, Mistress' Flo reassured her, 'and your bath is waiting.' With no form of acknowledgement, let alone the slightest degree of appreciation, Mistress mounted the stairs, shedding the rest of her clothes as she did so. It was my turn to follow, picking the clothes up from the floor – short slender skirt, crisp linen blouse, lacy silk panties, bra' and suspender-belt and stockings – and to follow Mistress into the bathroom to assist in her toilet., carefully cleansing her with bath oil and cream and ensuring she was properly dried, powdered and perfumed before accompanying her back to her room naked to assist her to dress. All the clothes I had retrieved, having been worn for that day, were destined either for laundering or dry cleaning of course. Mistress never wore the same garment twice without.

Velvet: A Story of Obedience Chapter 4 Part 2

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Apart from one incident the dinner proceeded smoothly. Mistress, in a magnanimous moment, arranged for two of the attendant couples to allow their subs to assist Flo and myself in serving the meal. One of them, a young girl named Vixen managed to spill wine on the table cloth near – but not actually over – the escort of the guest of honor. Her Mistress was rightly furious; and promised adequate retribution at 'an appropriate moment.' The guest of honor was some kind of attaché to the Ecuadorian Embassy. His escort was a raven haired beauty – tall, slender and lithe, with the pale, almost translucent complexion that occasionally goes with such dark hair. As we were engaged with clearing away the remnants of the meal, Vixen's Mistress approached the offended escort, Madam Blazquez, and offered her the right to punish Vixen in any way she felt proper; the offer was, of course, accepted. Our Mistress of course felt it incumbent on herself to offer either, or both, Flo and myself for suitable chastisement for our failure to supervise Vixen properly. Again the offer was accepted. Madam, who had attended some of Mistresses functions before, asked for the movable pillory to be brought into the banqueting hall, and requested a pair of dressmaking shears and a tawse. These having been supplied she took Vixen by the hand and led her to be clamped in the pillory –

bent over forwards with her head and both wrists securely held by the padded rims of the openings. Having secured her victim she now invited the guests to take turns in cutting Vixen's clothes off. And, in no time, her clothes were in shreds around her ankles – lace apron, short full skirted dress, frilly lace bedecked panties and matching bra' all reduced to scraps of rag. Only her head dress, gloves, nylon stockings and suspender-belt and her high heeled shoes remained. Now, as the rest of the guests gathered around, Madam took the tawse in her hand and administered a severe reprimand that had poor Vixen squirming in agony and left her buttocks striped, red-raw and bleeding. Worse, to the delight of the guests, just as the beating came to an end Vixen lost control of her bladder allowing a deluge of urine to splash onto the carpet beneath her feet, saturating the fragmented clothing that surrounded her – earning the added displeasure of her Mistress that such a lapse in behavior deserved; and who now offered her hostess the opportunity of administering a further reprimand. After a moment's contemplation, her Mistress requested Flo to fetch both a butt and a vaginal plug, which she inserted into Vixen's orifices, unshackled her from the pillory and led her into the torture room to shackle her to the rack – taking the guests and Flo with her, leaving myself and the other temporary waitress, Kitten, to clear up the mess as best we could. In the other room, Madam now looked at Flo and ordered her to remove her apron, dress and panties but allowing her to retain her bra', stockings, suspender-belt and high heels – plus her headdress and gloves. Summoning Kitten and me from the other room, Madam now requested that the vaulting horse be brought forward and, knowing the mechanism, set it vibrating with the phallus extended. Flo was now forced to straddle the horse and ride it bringing herself off to several orgasms of increasing intensity, before Madam was satisfied that she had 'learnt her lesson.' Like Vixen before her, Flo wasn't allowed to resume any of her discarded clothes. I was of course by now anticipating that my turn would come. Not yet, in assisting in moving the horse Kitten had been slightly careless and had almost knocked into Madam in placing it. Madam now turned her attention to Kitten and directed her to the whipping post. In no time a scarlet faced and almost weeping Kitten had her arms stretched upwards with her wrists lashed to the thong at the top. It was Kitten's Master who undertook to cut off her clothing under Madam's direction. Again the pretty, slim, blond head's apron and dress fell in tatters around her feet then, at Madam's demand her Master snipped apart the side seams of her panties allowing the slither of frothy lace to fall, revealing the reason for Kitten's panic to an audibly appreciative audience. Hidden in her panties was a sizable, and rapidly thickening and stiffening cock. Madam inverted the tawse and lifted the rapidly growing member on its handle. The incongruity of the masculine organ, far from diminishing the femininity of Kitten's appearance, seemed in some way to enhance it – as it thrust out hard and vibrant from the lacy silk that framed it; the lacy stocking tops, the silk suspender straps and the lacy suspender-belt above, with only a little further above, the lacy silken bra; add Kitten's delicately made-up, albeit scarlet face and pretty hair and the picture was complete. Madam now addressed the tawse to Kitten's unprotected buttocks, flanks and groin and decreed that he should be shackled to the rack, with Vixen, in his dishabille. Like her with a butt plug but with the shaft of his cock encased in a tight meal clamp, leaving the testicles and the helmet exposed. Now it was my turn. Madam decreed that we, she and I, should participate in a bout of 'ultimate surrender' – a wrestling match the victor being the one who managed to remove the other's bra' and panties first. So saying, Madam removed the slim fitting, full length, high necked sleeveless dinner dress she was wearing to reveal her underwear – a plain black close fitting satin bra' and lace trimmed black satin French knickers, over self supporting, lacy black nylon stockings. My own dress removed uncovered my white frilly panties, with matching bra' and suspender-belt and white nylon stockings. From the first, I realised Madam was playing with me. I ripped her knickers off quickly and easily – too easily, I immediately recognized, probably having been weakened at the side seams to allow for effortless tearing. Madam, still in absolute control, writhed her body under mine stretching her legs apart in a variety of attitudes that enabled her to keep her neatly trimmed raven bush and puffy labia on almost constant display to the excited onlookers. She removed my bra' efficiently and quickly, only moments after losing her knickers, then continued to play with me as. Try as I might I couldn't remove her bra'. No wonder, it was of the athletic type devoid of either back or front fastener, and fitted tight to her pert, trim breasts. Eventually, inevitably, Madam ripped my panties off and I had lost. As the loser I had to service Madam with my lips, teeth and tongue, and submit to being publicly penetrated by Madam, using a large black leather strap-on dildo. Then, in the company of Flo and the now released Kitten and Vixen, still all four clad only in the clothes we had been allowed to retain, and they with their plugs and sheath still in place, we had to serve additional refreshment to our Mistresses guests before they departed.

Velvet: A Story of Obedience Chapter 4 Part 3 ==============================================================================

During the early hours of the following morning Flo and I were summoned to the computer room in the attic. There we found Mistress dressed in the lacy, satin corselet, panties, bra', stockings and court shoes that she had worn during our early internet exchanges, before I'd been subsumed into her household. Spread on a side table were the similar costumes that Flo and I had worn, Mistresses in shades of blue, Flo's green and mine yellow. Only this time panties and bra' were provided for the two of us [previously we two had had our breasts and quims fully exposed] and there were three matching close fitting satin mask/hoods that, when in position, encased our heads leaving only our eyes, mouths and chins visible. Mistress had decided that it was time to trawl the internet again and Endeavour to ensnare another submissive. She told us that, for this exercise she would take the name Miss Sapphire, Flo would be Miss Emerald and I would become Miss Topaz. Mistress reopened her old site; again, with an invitation for 'a co-operative submissive, willing to submit her or himself to the directions of a trio of Mistresses' to make immediate contact. It wasn't until nearly an hour after Mistress first 'logged on' that a tentative reply appeared on the screen asking 'what exactly would be involved.' Mistress's reply went out as before, 'for adventures and experiences of a sexual nature.' Eventually, after a further period, the follow up appeared on the screen. 'I'd like to explore this further. J.' 'Okay, we might be willing; but who are we talking to? If you have a webcam plug it in and let's have a look at you,' Mistress replied, as she switched on her own camera and allowed our satin hooded and clad images to fill the screen. Eventually, after a further interval, the image of a slight young man – about the same build as Mistress filled the screen. Mistress suddenly handed the mouse to me and indicated that I should take over the consul. Remembering my own initiation I typed in the next instruction, 'if you are serious, remove your clothes, carefully." We all three watched as, with some further hesitation, the young man on the screen began to undress, removing his clothes and placing them neatly folded on a chair to the side. Eventually, he stood with downcast face and with his slim delicate hands clasped in front of his masculinity – shielding it from view. It was time for a reprimand. 'Hands to your sides,' I ordered curtly, 'and turn slowly in front of the camera, so that we can get a good look at you.' More shamefaced than ever, he complied turning gradually to present a fresh face over a slender, fair-skinned, almost hairless body – with a narrow waist, flat buttocks and long, straight legs ending in slender feet. My next order came, again remembering my own induction: 'Masturbate for us.' Almost, I expected him to 'log off' but, as if hypnotized, his hands went to his already stiffening and thickening cock, and he began to stroke it – increasing the frequency until, eventually, he erupted in a massive shooting discharge that splashed onto the lens and was consequently visible on the screen. 'Time for introductions,' I typed. 'I am Miss Topaz and my two companions, all of whom you must regard as your mistresses, are Miss Emerald and Miss Sapphire.' With the twin images of Mistress and Kitten in my mind, I gave my final order for that night. 'Tomorrow you will acquire four outfits similar to the ones we're wearing, except that yours will be in shades of pink and crimson, and you will log on again tomorrow morning at exactly 1.15am properly dressed – as we are. You will use the name Garnet.'

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