Brianna
- 1 year ago
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Brianna's Game free porn video
MEETING BRIANNA
1/
Steve Mayfield, thirties, pulled up at the electronic gates of the big
detached house. The lane it sat on was narrow and quiet. Just six or
seven properties here. It was hard to tell because the gardens were so
expansive.
He buzzed on the control panel.
"Steve Mayfield for Brianna Caldwell."
A short wait.
"Come on through," the woman's voice said.
The gates slowly opened, peeling apart, and he drove through, finding a
spot near the main house.
He got out, admiring the grounds, noting the small guest house set at
the edge of the neighbouring parkland. The view just from there must be
incredible, he thought. Never mind from the house.
When the lead had come through on his contacts he had figured there was
hope for a good gig based on the address, but this was beyond his
expectations. So long as he landed the contract for his company, the
commission would be outstanding. And, right now, in a slump, he needed
an outstanding commission.
He stopped short as the potential client stepped out.
"I'm Brianna Caldwell," she said, holding out her hand. "Thanks so much
for coming out."
It took him a second to find his tongue-
"Steve. Steve, er, Steve Mayfield."
-and take her slender, yet strong, hand. His gaze lingered for a moment
on her acrylic nails. Long and red. Matching her lipstick.
"Nice to meet you Steve, er, Steve Mayfield."
He blushed for a second and re-set. For a moment he had been cast back
to days when he enjoyed cross-dressing. Looking at this beautiful woman.
Probably in her thirties, like him. Knowing how to dress and show
herself at her best. Even though there seemed a sadness about her. An
aura. That feeling passed as he considered her......
The summer dress, flowing, showing just enough slender leg and cleavage.
The heels. The perfect make-up.
"Sorry, I-" he still stammered.
"That's okay. Can I get you a drink?"
"Yes. Thanks."
He followed her through the house to the kitchen.
She set two glasses on an island, granite counter and crunched ice into
them. She then poured juice over the smashed cubes. And again, he
couldn't take his eyes off her nails. Her hands. He imagined them around
his hardening cock and-
"The area I'm thinking of is just out here," she said, leading him to a
picture window.
He followed her, wondering is she knew just how much she was oozing raw
sexuality. The sound of her heels mesmerizing on the quarry tiled floor.
She had a hold of him. He'd do anything right now to make this sale and
stay in her world a little while. Discount? No problem. Serve her iced
tea? Here it is on a platter with biscuits. Play dress up for her.....
He dismissed the thought. It had been so long. He wasn't even sure he
wanted to go back to being that person.
He had to concentrate.
"Some people might say dig it out," he said, referring to the garden
before him. "I suggest you use the height. Imagine that parkland view
from a horizon pool."
She nodded. "That's the way I was leaning."
"Yes. Digging out would be a bigger contract, but I like to look after
my clients," he said.
And, he thought, I liked to be looked after. He pictured them together.
There was something about her. Not being used to getting what she
wanted, but control. He was wrapped around her little, tender
finger.....and, essentially, she had done nothing. God, where had she
come from, and why had she landed on his radar?
"I said, would you like a top up?"
He realised he had drained his glass day-dreaming.
"Sure. While you do that I'm just going to pop out and take a few
measurements."
Outside he quickly measured out a sizable pool. And then spent a few
minutes making notes, checking views, taking pictures to prepare for the
presentation he would make to her.
She stepped out and handed him his glass.
"I think it's a great spot," he said.
"I bet you say that to all the susceptible women," she smiled demurely.
He looked at her. No way was she susceptible. There was definitely
something about this chick. She was guarded, but not vulnerable.
Feminine, but strong. Wounded, maybe. But strong again now.
"I-no-I just call it how I see it," he stammered, thrown by her again.
He gestured to a gazebo. "Not too far from the hot tub. A decked
walkway, perhaps, to connect the areas."
"I can see you're very sincere," Brianna assured him. "Do you need
anything else while you're here?"
He considered her.
"The restroom," he said. "I've got quite a drive."
"No problem. Top of the stairs and along the landing. It's the last door
on your left."
He headed off, aware she was watching him. Was she interested? Was this
the story he would be telling his children one day?
He reached the room and locked the door. Pulled his trousers and shorts
down, his erection springing out. He didn't need to use the toilet, he
just needed some relief. A break from her exotic presence.
The bathroom was pristine. Expensive, scented lotions lined a tiled
shelf near a large corner bath. Soft, fragranced towels.
His erection about gone, he was drawn to a covered laundry hamper. He
opened it and felt fresh stirrings.
Atop a variety of skirts and blouses, the most gorgeous lilac bra and
panties set. He dared to hold them, touch them, getting hard again. He
considered the brand. Caroline Randell. It felt so luxurious compared to
the high street brands he used to wear.
He knew a part of it was simply nostalgia. That he hadn't dressed for so
long. Then there was the thrill. That he was holding this gorgeous
woman's intimates. He smelled the crotch of the panties and felt a
dribble of pre-cum.
"Shit," he whispered, catching it on his finger.
He looked around. Obviously nobody was here. The window was patterned
and frosted. Nobody could see what he was doing.
He stepped out of his trousers and shorts and slipped the satin panties
up his legs. Felt them wrap around his hardening penis which he forced
between his legs. God, this was Nirvana. It had been so long since he'd
dressed. Years. And now he couldn't stop himself. The lingerie felt
exquisite.
He pulled off his shirt and quickly put his arms through the straps of
the bra, hooking it behind his back. It was too big for his slender
frame and he imagined padding the lace cups to create small breasts.
He moaned at the exquisite joy he was feeling, realising now that all
these years without dressing had been torture. This was true happiness.
Right now.
He started to rub himself in her underwear-
The knock on the door was sharp and sudden.
"Are you okay in there?" Brianna called.
He checked his watch. Jesus. He'd been in here nearly fifteen minutes.
"Coming," he shouted. "Just finishing up."
He quickly pulled his trousers up, stuffing his boxers in his pocket.
Hard as a rock, he knew what he was doing was wrong. But he had to have
the lingerie. He fastened his shirt over the bra, checking the mirror.
Barely a hint of the banding and straps.
He couldn't believe what he was about to do. Walk out wearing a
potential client's lingerie. Not only a potential client, but one so
beautiful.
He started for the door. Jogged back. Flushed the toilet and washed his
hands. He opened the door.
"I thought you'd gotten lost," she smiled on the landing.
Now he was panicking. He hadn't dressed for years. She'd see the straps
of the bra in the light. She'd notice the outline of the panties, or the
bulging shorts in his pocket.
God, more pre-cum leaked out and he prayed it wasn't staining his
trousers in front of her.
"I'll hit the road," he said, starting down so she was behind him. The
clasps of the bra.....she'd see them! "I'll prep a quote for you.
Perhaps I can visit in a few days."
She began tapping on her cell. "When do you have in mind?"
"Say, Friday. Around noon," he said, thankful she was distracted by her
diary.
"Sounds good. We'll do lunch."
At the door, needing to get out before he exploded, he turned to shake
her hand. He had to stay close, but not too familiar.
She looked him right in the eye.
She knows, he thought. But how could she? Had she seen the slight
protrusion of the clasps of the bra through his shirt, right in the
middle of his back?
"I look forward to it," she smiled.
He got in his car, felt his penis push as he sat down, the first traces
of real cum leaking out. Ashamed he looked down, a stain growing on his
trousers. Thank God she hadn't seen that. He'd get home, clean the
lingerie and on Friday, somehow, sneak it back into her laundry so that
if she accused him he could have a revelatory eureka moment when he
claimed his innocence.
You mean I stole this bra and panties set? The ones that are in your
laundry hamper?
He started to drive away, his hand on his crotch.
Of course, he could have some fun until Friday. He hadn't dressed
forever, and this lingerie set were the keys to his feminine freedom.
2/
Naked, before the full length mirror, I faced my reflection. I forced
myself to look at my body because that was what my therapist told me I
had to do.
It was still terribly difficult.
Most people would see a gorgeous, graceful woman. Poised. But I could
see the scar....I hated the scar. It was symbolic of so much that had
been taken from me. My beauty. My livelihood to an extent. My actual
life as I lived now surrounded by walls. Afraid to venture far.
I sadly started to dress. The pool man would be here soon. I called a
former colleague, Andi, and told her who was visiting. She assured me I
would be okay, but told me to check in with her when he left.
Steve, er, Steve Mayfield had seemed friendly enough. I liked that he
wasn't trying too hard for the sale. He just seemed like a naturally
good guy. If a little edgy. But, in all modesty, I know how good I can
still look and I can imagine how that must make some men, inadequate or
inexperienced men, feel. Or perhaps it was something more. As I watched
him measuring out in the garden, I remembered being fooled before and it
had cost me dearly.
Could it still hurt? That hideous scar on my left breast. Even though it
was a year old now, I could still feel the knife slicing me. While I
waited I put some of the crushed ice on it, soothing myself.
Steve, er, Steve Mayfield then asked if he could use the toilet, and
that was fine, but why was he taking so long?
When he finally emerged, I watched him stammer and stutter his way to
the door and thought, for just a moment, I caught a hint of a bra strap
pushing through his shirt. That didn't strike me as unusual considering
what I used to do for a living, and what I still did during literary
games with online clients. But I hadn't seen it earlier when he arrived,
and I had a pretty good eye for that kind of thing.
Where had......? No. Had he taken my underwear? Is that why he was so
long in the bathroom?
He drove away and I closed the gates. Secure and safe, I almost ran
upstairs, breathless, and opened my laundry hamper.
I was almost sick. My bra and panties from the day before were gone.
I leaned over the sink and waited for my breathing to steady.
Clear headed I went to my expansive bedroom and undressed.
I touched the scar that tormented me everyday.
I used to be outgoing and dominant. I enjoyed a certain lifestyle,
keeping submissive men under me. Controlling them. Having them do my
bidding. I was fair, but loved their games.
Then, over time, a particular submissive earned my trust. He played his
part well and I didn't realise he was acting until he.......
God. Tears slipped out. I had been so blind. I touched the scar on my
left breast with the palm of my hand, imagining it not there. But when I
removed my fingers it had not vanished.
The doctors, my friends, colleagues......the few people in the world I
would bare myself to now.....had all said it was barely noticeable. But
it was so ugly. I was.......destroyed. The scar was the least of what he
had done......I trembled at the thought of him entering me, couldn't
control my quaking body until the memory passed like sunlight slipping
through swaying tree branches in a breeze.
Still, I remembered retreating from the world. Eventually, I found a way
to continue my lifestyle through literary games at my website:
https://briannagames.wixsite.com/homeofhumiliation.
I created interactive stories for clients to take the lead role in,
making all the choices that decided how the narrative would develop, how
much they would dress. And then came other variations, always using my
talent as a writer.....
But I was afraid. An emotion I wasn't familiar with. I became more
secluded and was left with only the truest of friends.
I hated that scar, and all it reminded me of.
And now, Steve, er, Steve Mayfield had wandered in here and believed he
could take from me.
I wiped my eyes and stood tall. I looked beyond the scar to the
beautiful woman I used to be.....Still was.
He couldn't do that.
Andi, and some of the other girls, had told me they'd made the so called
submissive pay for what he had done to me. I'd never asked what had
happened to him. Maybe one day........But for now, I wouldn't lean on
them again for this.
It was nothing so extreme. Nothing violent. He was probably nothing more
than a pantie pervert. But if he wanted to violate me, I would take his
thievery as an indication that he wanted to play a game.
My game.
I still dressed for my online clients, taking great delight in teasing
them with interactive stories of feminisation and games of humiliation,
both public and private. I usually dressed for the role they requested,
even though they would never see me.
But now I spent a few minutes holding and studying one of my favourite,
older outfits. Tight. Leather. It screamed domination. I started to get
ready for my work before the computer, aware I was essentially a shut-
in.
That I had been that way for too long.
I slid stockings up my long, smooth legs and elegantly fastened them
with the suspenders. I put on the leather skirt and paired it with a
lace basque, that emphasised my breasts, the scar be damned. I fixed my
blonde hair and completed my look with dark make-up.
It wasn't about what I was wearing. It was about an attitude.
I put on my highest heels and stood before the mirror once more.
I didn't see the scar. I saw the strong, empowered woman I used to be.
My name is Mistress Brianna.
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