Mrs Vandermeers Rules 4
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Mrs Vandermeer's Rules 8 free porn video
I’d been on pins and needles all day, anticipating the moment when Abby would allow me to have an orgasm at her whim. She’d promised, and I was fairly certain that, as long as I didn’t mess anything up too badly, she’d keep her promise. I was so focused on that potential moment that my mom actually asked if everything was alright with me. I think that my reaction, blushing and mumbling nonsensically, gave her the impression that I was hung up on some boy, a notion I did nothing to discourage preferring that to the truth; that the woman who paid me to babysit for her kids had turned me into her pet slut, a role I’d, apparently, been born to play.
“Where are you off too today, Shannon?” she’d asked as I hurried out the door shortly after breakfast.
“The mall,” I told her truthfully, pressing my lips together to keep from giggling nervously at the thought that followed. So I can buy something slutty to wear for my Mistress.
“Oh, and I’m going to meet a friend later, around 3. I won’t be out too late, promise.”
She gave me a look that had me blushing again, her thoughts suddenly transparent.
“A girl friend, mom. School stuff.”
Not exactly the truth, but not exactly a lie either. With that, I fled the scene of the crime and forgot all about it, the money Abby had paid me to be her whore stashed inside my pocket book. Thankfully, my parents were out with friends when I returned home, giving me breathing room to try on my new outfits in anticipation my evening in Mrs. Vandermeer’s ‘care’.
I arrived precisely at 3pm. Actually, I rang the doorbell at 3pm after sitting on the porch for ten minutes, nervously watching the cars go by, wondering if any of them noticed me. Every time one went past I held my breath, praying that it wouldn’t slow down to get a better look at me, a thought which both horrified and aroused me at the same time. Not that they could see much, unless they’d had x-ray vision. Although my knock off Burberry trench coat looked slightly out of place on such a pleasant day, I would have stood out even more had I not worn it. Of course, I shed it moments before pressing the buzzer. Mrs. Vandermeer had requested a slut, after all…
Hot Topic had been my first destination, knowing that I could easily get away with buying some risqué outfits there without raising any eyebrows. I knew, from experience, that Mrs V enjoyed my status as ‘teenage slut’ so I ended up buying more than what I’d needed for today’s date, knowing that I’d get a chance to wear it sometime in the, hopefully, near future. In fact, nothing I’d bought there had made the cut, instead, I’d found something better at a local fetish store that I’d been eyeing online (and yes, I ended up spending far more than the 300 that Mrs. Vandermeer had paid me for ‘my services’, once I added the pair of pumps to the bill. In my defense, they were perfect; Crimson, 4 inch heels. And, the clincher, they had ankle straps that locked. Of course I bought padlocks and of course I hung the keys on a charm bracelet round my left wrist).
As for the dress, it was red. Very red and semi sheer and incredibly short. If I’d been wearing panties, they’d have been visible if I’d so much as leaned forward. The only other item I’d accessorized myself in were a pair of fishnet stockings held up by a simple black garter belt.
After a short pause, the door opened for me and a dark haired woman wearing round framed sunglasses greeted me coolly. I was surprised at first, unable to speak, and I barely recognized Mrs. Vandermeer, disguised as she was. Then, it made perfect sense. She didn’t want to be seen letting in a girl looking like I did. After all, she had her reputation and her position to think about.
“On time. Very good. Come in, Miss Spencer,” she commanded me, her words clipped and brisk.
Stifling a nervous giggle, I reminded myself that I was barely recognizable myself. I wasn’t Shannon Spencer, all-American high school girl and secret lesbian whose heart was pounding like a jack hammer as the door closed behind me. Today, I was Shannon Spencer, Mrs. Vandermeer’s teenage whore. I kind of liked the sound of it, enough that I wanted to share.
“Your whore,” I let out in a rush, swallowing hard as she removed her glasses and turned her steely blue gaze on me, one eyebrow raised inscrutably as if seeing me for the first time.
“I hope it pleases you,” I whispered, suddenly feeling shy as I lowered my gaze to the floor and clasped my hands behind my back. I knew exactly what I looked like. After all, I’d put a great deal of thought into it.
Then came the moment I’d been dreading as her gaze bored through me, her eyes focusing on my unadorned throat.
“Where’s your collar? Didn’t I make myself clear, Miss Spencer?”
I’d rehearsed this moment a hundred times already, and was ready for it. Quickly, I unclasped my hands, holding them out in front of me, cupping my collar in my hands like a priceless artifact.
“It didn’t feel right putting it on myself, Mistress,” I told her, my voice shaking, my words uneven.
“I see,” she replied evenly, taking it from my shaking hands. “Turn around.”
I complied, holding still as she buckled it around my throat and locked it into place, then ran the tips of her fingers tantalizingly along the edge where leather met flesh. I felt a warm wet trickle make its way down the inside of my thigh as she brushed my hair behind one ear and whispered a single word.
“Mine.”
“Yours,” I replied, meaning it with every fiber of my being. I wanted nothing more than for her to possess me at that moment.
“Good girl,” she smiled as she spun me slowly around and clipped a leash to my collar. “Come.”
She led and I followed, finally I got a chance to admire her. From the rear she was almost unrecognizable. Her wig hung halfway down her back, long and straight and black as a raven’s feathers. She was dressed in an expensive looking suit; a crisp looking white collared blouse with gold cuff links beneath a charcoal grey vest that fit her snuggly, as did the skirt. The outfit was completed by black seamed stockings, the seams perfectly straight, of course, and a pair of sensibly heeled patent leather pumps that probably cost as much as my entire outfit.
“I thought we’d start by commemorating your visit.” Her tone was so nonchalant that she could have been discussing the weather. My eyes were drawn to the digital camera that hung from her wrist. Unable to muster the courage to speak, I simply nodded, as if my consent was even a factor anymore. We both knew that I was committed to doing as told as long as she dangled the promise of an eventual orgasm, perhaps more, before me.
She led me to what could only be described as a family room at the back of the house. Thick curtains partially shielded a large picture window looking out on the backyard, giving me a partial view of a wooden deck and a well-manicured and, thankfully, fenced in yard. As with the rest of the house it was tastefully furnished. A large flat screen television hung on one wall, shelves housing a stereo, CDs and DVDs, and flanked by expensive looking speakers from which ambient technobeats pulsed quietly. Facing it was a low, flat coffee table and a black leather couch. There were several framed movies posters hanging on the walls, most of which I recognized (From Russia With Love, Breakfast at Tiffanys, Pulp Fiction, The Dark Knight) and some which I didn’t (Secretary, 91/2 Weeks, Blue Velvet). To the right of the couch was a matching easy chair and ottoman. Opposite the tv was a small bar complete with stools, a dart board, and an old fashioned pinball machine. Presently, the room was well lit by the sunlight seeping in though the wide gap in the curtains.
“Smile for the camera, baby,” Abby told me, the corner of her mouth quirking in the barest of smiles.
Blushing, I smiled, knowing how awkward I looked playing at being an adult, my heart raced as she took my photo.
“Again, this time, remember who you are,” she admonished.
Taking a moment, I closed my eyes and zeroed in on the beat of the music, letting it wash over me. It was, I had to admit, somewhat sensual. I let it control my rhythm, swaying my hips as I loosened up a little while she encouraged me from time to time. Before long, I was moving slowly around the room, careful not to stumble on heels I was only somewhat used to, doing my best to make sure my ass swayed invitingly, casting what I hoped were sexy, or at least sassy, glances at the camera from time to time as she recorded my performance, one shot at a time.
“Good girl. Find your inner porn star.”
I couldn’t help but blush at that, giggling as she took yet another picture of me, the tip of my finger between my lips and then sucking my entire finger into my mouth, putting on a show for her. It was fun. Kind of like playing dress up in the privacy of my own room, only this time, instead of performing for the mirror, I had an appreciative audience.
I paused in front of the window, facing away, clutching the edges of the curtains so that my arms were spread like a cross as I pushed my bottom out for the camera before reversing my pose, this time shaping my lips into an erotic kiss. The only sounds in the room were the stereo, the faint click of the camera, and my pounding heart. My hands trembled only slightly as I ran them over my breasts, feeling my nipples poking through the fabric of my dress, and along the curve of my waist and hips, gathering up the courage to curl them under the hem of my dress and peel it up my thighs, revealing twin black garters and my smoothly shaved, and dripping wet, cunt. Frozen like that, my gaze fixed on her face, I waited for some sign of approval, letting go of a breath I wasn’t aware of holding when I got one of her rare smiles, followed by yet another click of the camera.
“Sit while I pour myself a drink.”
I followed her finger, noting it pointed directly at the ottoman. Nodding to her back, I smoothed my dress back down my thighs and took a seat on the cushioned stool, positioned myself so that I could watch as she poured herself a glass of wine. She took a sip, and then, glass in hand, made her way to the thick curtains, pulling them closed, leaving the room dark for a moment until the television screen lit up, bathing the room in soft blue light, including her as she made her way to the leather chair in front of which I’d positioned myself.
“Watch,” she instructed, taking another sip of her wine.
Before I turned away, I noticed a remote resting on one of the arm rests. I sat watching as the screen lit with a disquieting sight; a slight blonde girl (I say girl, but she looked to be of legal drinking age, which made her much more of a woman than I was) seated on the very same footstool I currently found myself upon. Other than a red leather collar with silver rings attached at the front and each side and (I could only assume) the rear, she was completely naked.
In the back ground I could see the television, giving me the impression that the video had been filmed by someone sitting where Mrs. Vandermeer now sat. I had a very uneasy feeling about where this was headed.
“Hi, my name is Candy,” I must have smirked audibly at that, for Mrs. V made a shushing noise, one I took to heart, covering my mouth with my hands, my shoulders slightly hunched.
“Sorry,” I murmured over the top of the rest of her introduction as she explained that she was there, or here, actually, by choice.
“Candy’s not her real name. More like a pet name. Behave or I’ll give you one as well. Muffin, perhaps. Or Lemon Drop."
Biting my lip, I vowed to do anything I could to avoid being called ‘Muffin’ or worse and watched as ‘Candy’ did the same (bite her lip, I mean). Her skin was pale enough that I could see her cheeks burning with embarrassment as she spread her legs as wide as she could and started masturbating for the camera. I watched in fascination. While I’d seen porn on the internet (who hasn’t), this wasn’t the same. This wasn’t some movie. It was much more personal. Some girl, probably much like me, had sat here and touched herself, probably knowing that it was going to be seen by someone like me.
Breathlessly, I watched as she teased her clit, her fingers slipped in and out of her obviously wet pussy on occasion. Candy twisted her nipples with her other hand, her sighs turned to soft moans, her eyes focused on the camera at all times. It was so sensual. Somehow she made the act of being a slut on film look so beautiful. I was mesmerized and found myself wishing I could do the same. Not put on a performance on film, certainly, but wishing that I could manage to look as sensuously sexy while masturbating for Mrs. Vandermeer.
The show must have lasted fifteen minutes before I heard the distinctly male voice behind the camera speak for the first time.
“You may come now.”
“Oh my god,” I gasped, unable to tear my eyes from the screen as she cried out softly in ecstasy, her lashes fluttering as her head rolled slightly back, a soft squeal of release spilling from her ‘O’ shaped lips as her entire body tensed, trembled, tensed again and finally relaxed.
“Oh my god,” I repeated, not daring to turn away from the screen, my heart pounding in my chest at the realization who the voice had belonged to. Abby’s husband.
“Thank you, Sir,” the blonde girl managed, her voice still shaking, her legs still spread wide.
I noticed that she’d left a small puddle on the leather before the screen went black and then bright blue again. Unsure of what to say or do, I simply sat there, stunned and staring, my thoughts in chaos, my mouth dry as my earlier fantasy of Mr. Vandermeer fucking me up against the hallway wall began teasing me again.
Behind me, I could hear the sound of Mrs. Vandermeer taking another sip from her glass. Other than that the room was bathed in silence. I’m not sure when she’d turned the music off. Probably when the video had begun.
“Now you know, Miss Spencer. I have my toy and Greg has his. Turn around for me. I want to see your pretty little face.”
Without missing a beat, I swiveled, the leather feeling cool against my bare bottom, and faced her. She wore a bemused smile on her face as she tapped a button on the remote. Immediately, the lights began rising, filling the room with soft white light. She watched me, her eyes never leaving my face, her expression neutral as she cocked a single brow questioningly.
“I promised you I’d let you come, baby,” she said, her voice gentle as she held up the camera, the lens pointed vaguely in my direction. “My husband made the same promise to his pet. It’s your choice.”
Suddenly understanding the game, I swallowed hard. The price of being allowed to cum (yes, I know how silly that sounds. After all, I could simply tell her to forget it, go home, and rub out orgasm after orgasm for the next three days) was to sit here and mimic Candy. I thought of how amazing she looked, of how I’d envied her as she sat perched on the ottoman, cumming for her… Master. Of how I’d wanted to look like that, of how much I’d needed, for days now, that release. Of how much I wanted to please Mrs. Vandermeer.
She sat silently, reclining as she took another drink, not saying anything. I knew, without asking, that if I refused she’d understand even though she’d be disappointed.
“If I do… who else will see it?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly as blood roared inside my head at the mere thought of agreeing to this.
“Besides you and I, only my husband and, if he chooses, his pet.”
“Does he… already know what you do to me?”
Abby smiled, shaking her head much to my relief. “No. Not the specifics, at least. He knows we are spending time together. Other than that, he has no idea of your true nature, baby. If you want him to know, that’s your choice, not mine.”
I let my breath out with a rush of relief, a small sob catching in my throat, noting with joy the look of concern on her face at the sound.
“I’ll make this easy on you, Shannon,” she said, gently, surprising me. She really used my given name. “Agree or disagree and it won’t change anything. Everything else I have planned will still happen. I’ll even let you sit there and cum to your heart’s content before we move on. No camera. No confession. No mention of it ever again. It’s your choice.”
“I want to do it,” I whispered, surprising myself.
“Are you sure?”
“No,” I said, giggling softly even as I began pulling my dress up over my head and dropping it on the carpeted floor between us. “I mean, yeah, I’m sure, only… I’m not sure why?”
She laughed at that, more of a dry chuckle, really.
“Because you’re a very dirty little girl. And a very sweet one as well.”
Shrugging shyly at her praise, I smiled back at her, my decision now made, pausing until I could see the red light on the camera light up, licking my lips nervously before smiling into the lens.
“Hi, my name is… Kitty.”
I did my best not to giggle at the look on Mrs. Vandermeer’s face, continuing on with my unrehearsed speech.
“I asked to do this, to be filmed like this, because I wanted to show… my Mistress, as well as both of you, Candy and… and you, what a slut I am. It’s my choice.”
I felt myself blush fiercely as I spread my legs just like Candy had, wet my fingers in my mouth, my eyes never leaving the lens as I began to play with my cunt like a dirty little whore. It didn’t take very long before I, too, was sitting in a small puddle of my own juices, moaning softly, lids fluttering as I masturbated for my audience, only one of whom was actually present. My nipples ached so bad that I was afraid to even touch them, so I concentrated on my clit and my cunt, switched hands, licked my juices from the fingers of my right as I pushed those of my left inside of my dripping wet snatch, then sucking clean those of my left as I rubbed my clit furiously with those of my fight, until, finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Please?” I moaned, suddenly overcome with a rush of ecstasy that I couldn’t imagine holding back.
I’m not sure what would have happened had she denied me. Fortunately, she chose not to be that cruel. At least not right then.
“Come for me, baby.”
I exploded as soon as the words were out of her mouth, a week of frustration and need tearing through me as I screamed wordlessly, the intensity of my orgasm so great that it was almost painful. Afterwards, I simply slumped forward, my heart pounding, my breath ragged as I muttered over and over, oblivious to everything.
“Oh my god, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”
“Good girl,” my Mistress chuckled, content to put the camera aside and finish her wine while I recovered from my mercurial climax.
Eventually, I groaned softly and gazed up at her, still trying to catch my breath. “Totally worth it.”
“Good to know. I’ll file that away for the future,” she said with a wry smile, one that I managed to return.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Yeah. Yes, I mean. Please?” I mumbled belatedly.
“Water or juice?”
“Wine?”
“You’re a little young for that,” she mused.
“Not too young to be fucking a college professor though?” I dared, wondering if I was going to regret my ill-advised remark.
“Good point,” Abby admitted, good naturedly as she rose gracefully from her chair and poured a second glass of Zinfindel at the bar, crooking her finger at me as she took a seat on one of the stools.
“Nor too old to be spanked for impudence. On your feet, Miss Spencer. Now.”
My mouth suddenly growing dry, I rose as quickly as I could, somewhat unsteady on my heels (I was still a little dazed by the strength of my climax as well as unused to the heels I wore) and wobbled over to the bar. Nervous, I stood awkwardly before her and did my best to pretend I was on the verge of adulthood rather than the adolescent girl I sometime felt reduced to in her presence.
“Such a pretty little thing,” she mused, her gaze travelling down my exposed body, obviously amused at the sudden blush that colored my cheeks when it reached my still wet pussy.
“Thank you,” I whispered, my blush setting even deeper into my cheeks until it felt like it would spread throughout me. Perhaps that was just lust, I don’t know. All I do know was that I stood there staring at the floor, completely cowed at her presence, grateful for the praise she lavished on me, no matter how small.
“Listen carefully, Kitty. I want you laying over the bar, feet on the railing. Here, I’ll help you.”
Nodding, not daring to question her, I faced the bar and carefully stepped up on the attached brass railing that ran about a foot off the floor, balancing precariously on the balls off my feet. I was still shaking enough that I’m not sure I could have managed it without her guidance.
“Bend over for me. Good girl,” she encouraged me, pushing me gently down on the clean hard surface. It was wide enough that I ended up with my head turned towards her, my cheek pressed against the bar, relaxing as she gathered my hair and tied it off at the nape of my neck with a pink elastic tie.
“Hands behind your back. Now, stay like that until I return.”
I listened to her footfalls until they faded away, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Deliciously wicked thoughts. Thoughts no sixteen year old girl should be having. The video I’d watched had opened up so many avenues for my fantasies and I began wonder where Abby had gone and what would happen upon her return. I felt myself growing wetter, as if it was possible, as scenario after scenario played out in my head; Her returning with her strap on buckled about her hips and fucking me from behind was the most tame of them.
What would I do if she returned with her husband? I thought of what it would be like to submit to being fucked by him, my virginity, so to speak, being taken. His hand in the small of my back, pressing me down against the bar as he pushed his cock slowly into my dripping wet snatch.
I shivered at the thought of him filling me, stretching me almost painfully (in my fantasy, his cock was huge; as thick and as long as his wife’s rubber one) as he impaled me upon it. The idea excited me so much that I began to writhe in place, trying to rub myself against the edge of the counter, my eyes closed as I pictured myself from behind as he drove his cock into me with such fierce animal strength that I…
“Did I not make myself clear, Miss Spencer? You were to remain as I left you and yet, I return to find you grinding yourself against the bar like a common whore.”
I jerked suddenly, my eyes fluttered open, frozen with fear, a knot formed in the pit of my stomach. She was displeased with me. I’d disappointed her with my disobedience, minor as it might be, and that, more than anything else, filled me with remorse.
“I’m sorry, Mistress,” I managed, forcing my voice to stay steady, my body to still.
In the following silence, I was able to track her slow measured steps as she approached me, trembling in anticipation of… of whatever it was she had planned. Unfortunately, my face was turned away from the doorway, and I dared not turn it and try to get a glimpse.
“I was going to be gentle with you, baby.”
Her words were crisp and business like. Not at all the sensuous purr I had hoped for. I had a premonition that her plans for me had suddenly changed, something that was borne out by as I felt her grip on my foot, followed by the smooth feel of polished leather as she fastened a cuff around my ankle, followed by an audible click as she padlocked it in place.
“Seems you need a little help staying still,’ she commented as she secured my left ankle as well, leaving me at her mercy, a position I might have enjoyed if I’d been more sure of her mood.
“I’m having thoughts about taking pictures and sending them to my husband, Miss Spencer. How would you feel about that?”
I didn’t answer, not because I didn’t want to, but because I wasn’t really sure how to; the thought both terrified and excited me.
“I thought as much,” Abby continued as if my silence was all the answer she needed. “Perhaps another time.”
I felt her hand on the back of my calf, her fingers running slowly up my leg, the stocking I wore amplifying the feeling. I felt her fingertips brush the back of my knee, my thighs, turning inward. I held my breath, letting it out with a whimper as she paused a hairsbreadth below the opening of my cunt, and retreated, this time beginning the journey at my other ankle. Over and over she teased me like this, the silence only broken by my ragged breaths and my soft sighs and occasional moan. Each time, I thought, this is it, she’s going to touch me there.
And yet, each time she would pause and start again until I thought I might go mad. I could feel my juices trickling down the inside of one thigh, as slow as molasses, feel as her fingers brushed through my betraying wetness, pausing to trace patterns against my trembling flesh before moving upwards again as I held my breath in silent prayer.
“Does my poor baby girl want to cum for her Mistress?” she cooed.
“Please?” I managed to whimper, eliciting a cold chuckle.
“So polite for a dirty little whore,” she remarked, continuing to play her game as I gripped the edge of the bar, my eyes squeezed shut, my mouth working like a fish out of water, not even noticing when she stood and circled the bar until I felt her hand upon my wrist.
All I could do was moan as she pulled my arms to either side of me, spreading them like wings before securing them to the far end of the counter.
“Now, my lovely little dove, it’s time for me to take my pleasure.”
A thousand scenarios raced through my mind. Her taking me from behind, a strap on harnessed around her hips as she plugged my pussy (or my ass, a thought that stole my breath away) as I writhed on the counter helplessly. Or, perhaps She’d grab hold of my hair, lift my head and press her cunt against my mouth, ordering me to use my tongue like a cock until she came. Or…
My thoughts were interrupted by her soft moan. I dared to shift my head until she came into view. She was magnificent, straddling a bar stool, naked, her breasts still firm, her hand pressed between her thighs as she worked a very realistic looking cock in and out of her. I watched in fascination, noting how it glistened, slick with her lubrication. She moaned softly, drawing my attention to her face, her eyes mere slits, her mouth opening and closing slowly as she approached what I knew to be a powerful orgasm. I watched, my heart pounding against the surface of the bar, I yearned for her, suddenly aware of the intended punishment being delivered; being denied the desperate need, not to cum, but to make my Mistress cum. That was the lesson of the day, and it was one that left me contrite. What Mrs. Vandermeer did was for me as much as for her and I had repaid her with disobedience.
I’m not sure when the tears started flowing, only that I was sobbing when she finally came, her cries of pleasure echoing in my ears as I lay there helpless to assist her.
o-O-o
Later, I lay in her arms, clinging gently to her in the upstairs bedroom, our heads denting the same pillow, the memory of her gently wiping tears from my lashes fresh in my mind.
“I don’t want to go home,” I whispered, blushing even as the words spilled from my lips. “I want to stay here with you, Abby.”
With a wry smile, she tilted my chin up with steady fingers a moment before swatting me with some force on my ass.
“Mistress Abby, Miss Spencer,” she said, her words measured and somewhat menacing, only the soft smile that she shared with me softening the rebuke.
“Mistress Abby,” I repeated, blushing softly, vowing not to repeat my mistake, worried that even this small indiscretion would lead to another ‘lesson’.
Instead, she began brushing her fingers gently through my hair, a prelude to a kiss that stole my breath away.
“I have, for better or for worse, become quite fond of you, kitty.
I felt my face burn at her words, knowing, without a doubt, that my cheeks were glowing a soft rose color as I buried my face in her breasts, surrendering to the inner peace that I felt, my eyes closing as weariness settled over me like a mantle.
“Sweet dreams, baby,” was the last thing I remembered as I fell asleep in her arms. That and her soft kiss upon my brow.
Jane
- 11.02.2022
- 50
- 0
- Category:
- BDSM
