3 comments/ 20825 views/ 5 favorites The Deal of My Life Ch. 01 By: metis_amarant It wasn't a hard day at work. It never is, not really. The work that I do is time consuming, but not really engaging. My job is not my vocation; it's simply a way to sustain myself monetarily and keep busy. No, my vocation starts when I get home from the long day of sitting and pretending to be normal, or normal enough to keep my job anyway. A hot summer day outside, but my office is so cold that I'm carrying a jacket as I walk up to the door of my boyfriend's apartment. I don't always go over there right after work, but I've let him know I'll be there today. I have to let him know. It's part of our deal. Though our current romantic culture goes to great lengths to deny it, all relationships are essentially about deals. A contract that we enter into with another person regarding how we will act towards them and how they will act towards us. I personally think that a lot of misery is created in relationships because most people don't treat their relationships as deals. No one takes the time to set down clear behavioral expectations, or hardly anyone I should say. Romance leads us to believe our perfect lover will know our mind and heart without ever having to ask or learn, and any failures on that front lead to feelings of anger or sadness. It's been refreshing for me to be with someone who is willing to discuss expectations without dancing endlessly around the subject. We each have wants and needs and desires. The relationship comes about with how we fulfill those for each other, and the ways in which we are not willing to fulfill each other. A dance yes, but one with rules that we have both created and shared with each other, rather than one wherein neither partner knows who's leading, let alone what the rules are. My heart is pounding as I raise my hand to insert the key. Maybe fear isn't what you should feel when you visit your boyfriend, but for me the fear I feel is a delicious spice that heightens my arousal at the thought of seeing him. After all, I don't know what I will find for myself behind the door, not for sure. A quick turn of the key gains me entry to the foyer, such as it is, of his apartment. I close the door behind me and set down the shoulder bag that doubles as a purse and lunch bag at work. The jacket, I lay carefully across the bag, keeping it out of contact with the dubious cleanliness of the floor. Then I wait. As far as my employers care, I could wear jeans to work, or even sweatpants, but I care more than that about myself. I wear nice clothes to work, in part because I like being noticed, but it's also part of my deal. Sweatpants, after all, are not sexy. White blouses and black skirts are a start on my sexy work wardrobe, but it doesn't end there. Cunningly concealed under the white blouses are a rotation of waist cinchers. Today I have on a black and white one that has to be pulled on over my head and cinches breath-pinchingly tight. My bras for work are at minimum cute, and mostly sexy, lacy, silky things. For the sake of easy access, I do not wear underwear to work unless specifically told to do so. Also for that sake, I never wear tights. My legs are instead covered with imported stockings, held up by an imported garter belt, because Americans don't buy them often enough for domestic stores to carry anything of quality. At least, they don't where I live. And it's a good thing I have a desk job that doesn't require much walking or standing, because towering high heels are the final touch to my work outfits. I don't wear makeup to work, mostly because I don't need to, though I will put on a bright red lipstick now and then for variety. I wear my dark hair long, about halfway down my back, and usually it simply floats freely around me. Though I do have contact lenses, I also wear a pair of dark rimmed glasses fit for a sexy librarian for variety or when my eyes are tired. Today it's contacts; one less thing to break if the sex gets rough. I imagine sometimes that the men I work near must spend time thinking of me when they jack off. From their occasional stumbles at the sight of me, and the number of smiles I garner from them, I find the possibility highly likely. I wonder if someday one of them will have the balls to ask me out, or even proposition me, but so far none have dared. I can hear my boyfriend's television, some sports channel I think, but the foyer is curtained off from the rest of the apartment, so I can't see anything that might be happening. I just wait. My feet are aching to be out of my heels or at least off of my feet, but I wait. Accepting that I have chosen this doesn't lessen the pain, but it does give me a certain calmness, despite my pounding heart. He usually doesn't keep me waiting this long. When he pulls back the curtain abruptly, my breath catches in my throat at the sight of him. He is looking at me with undisguised hunger and lust, and I can see through his pants that he is ready to express his desires directly on my body. Neither of us speak. My eyes are riveted to the bulge in his jeans. Peripherally, I do note his slow scan of my body. "Strip, bitch," are his first words to me. I flush at the sound of his voice, at the heat in it, and take my time for him, starting with my skirt. Though I want to keep staring at his cock, I have to give some attention to the hook on my skirt before I can unzip it and let it fall to the floor in a satiny pool around my heels. Not daring to dally overmuch, I quickly unbutton the blouse and let it too fall away onto the floor. It might be a bitch to clean later, but there's no time for careful placement now. I slide the tank top that I wear as a corset liner down below my breasts, so that I can remove the bra before the waist cincher. I know that he enjoys the sight of my breasts spilling over the cincher, almost as if on a platter for his enjoyment, and I do want him to enjoy me. I unclip my bra and slide it off, leaving the tank top straps on my shoulders so that the shirt doesn't fall down unbecomingly over the cincher. I wait just a beat before untying the cincher. Sometimes he likes me to keep it on, but today he makes no sound so I pull on the strings and loosen my tight, self-imposed prison. It isn't easy to remove a pull-over waist cincher in a sexy manner. There is a certain amount of unavoidable wriggling and pulling that doesn't lend itself to graceful or sensual movement. While I do have a certain amount of practice at removing this particular pull-over cincher, the best I can manage is to make a show of hip wiggles as I pull, adjust, and pull it over my head. The tank top goes next (and much more easily). I am really hoping at this point that he lets me take my shoes off, and I have to conceal my relief at his continued silence, knowing from past experience that showing discomfort encourages his evil side. I pick my feet up one by one to undo the straps before I daintily step out of my red patent leather five inch heels (they do have a small platform, so it's not quite as bad as it sounds to walk around in them). Garter straps pose less of a challenge for sexy removal than the waist cincher, but they do have their own little quirks. I've gotten to the point of being able to undo the clips one-handed, most of the time. Every now and then though, one decides that it wants to stick. I manage to unclip five of the six straps without issue, but that sixth one doesn't want to release. I reach back with both hands to get at the stubborn clip under my butt as the stocking on the other side, with nothing to hold it up, starts to billow down my leg. I find the situation rather comical, but smiling might be taken the wrong way, so I try to remain stoic as the last clip releases and I smooth my stockings off my legs. One last set of hooks and the garter belt itself is gone. Naked, my gaze returns to the bulge of his cock under his jeans. My amusement has faded, replaced by the fear spiced lust I had entered with. I'm afraid of pain, but I also crave it. I want him to fuck me, to take me and just fucking use me, but I also fear the violence that I fantasize about. I've stopped caring if it's normal or not. He lets me stand, and my anticipation grows for what seems like hours. He shifts, and undoes his fly. As his cock pops out, my mouth drops open, eager and drooling just a little. He's hard and ready to fuck me and I am so ready to be fucked. I can feel wetness pooling between my legs. "You want this?" he asks, grabbing his cock and waving it at me. It would be funny if I weren't so horny. I nod, eyes glued to his cock. He steps over to me, and, grabbing one arm, shoves me against the wall face first. It happens so quickly that my mind is spinning, unable to reason. Slight pains in my shoulder and arm only make me grind my ass against his cock. The pain, like the fear, just spices my lust. His words hardly register in my head. "I asked you a question, bitch. Answer me properly," he whispers in my ear with a tenderness that belies his actions, and to some extent, his words. A hand caresses my hair and then tightens into a fist, pulling my head back and exposing my neck on the side where I can feel his breath. "Yes Sir, this bitch wants your cock Sir," I manage to respond in an appropriate, though breathily quiet, manner. The tight pressure on my head is released, and followed by another caress. "Good girl," he croons. "Good little bitch." He moves his body away from mine, and I sag a little against the wall for a moment, but only a moment. His next move is to grab my hair again, not too painfully, and begin to walk away. I follow my hair to the bedroom, and am tossed to the bed. I lay face down and await further instructions. My brain isn't really up to speed again, still slowly basking in the glow of when he shoved me against the wall. "Up on all fours, bitch," his voice commands me. I feel as if I have no volition to move on my own, but I spring to obey his voice. I can feel the heat from between my legs radiating to fill the room with the scent of cunt and lust. He slaps my ass, gently, a few times, more an over-enthused petting than a spank. "It smells like a bitch in heat in here. What a fucking stench. But little bitches just can't help themselves, can they?" "No Sir." "Little bitches need to be fucked, don't they?" "Yes Sir." "Little bitches just love being humiliated, don't they? You love this fucking nasty shit, don't you?" "Yes Sir, this bitch loves nasty shit." The bed shifts as he joins me. His body is like a beacon of cold to the raging heat of mine. He spreads my knees wider with his hands, and then I can feel cock behind me. I gasp at the feel of it, and my hips shift, offering up the cunt between my legs to him. He is so very large, both long and thick, and I am so hungry for the intense pleasures and pains that cock can provide. He teasingly rubs his cock near my wet slit, passing briefly by the clit as he wets his cock with my excited juices. My body moves without my will to try and capture the cock inside me. I just want it. I want to be filled. I want to be fucked. This is what gets me through the boredom of work and everyday normal toil. This fuck. This deal. "Bad bitch," he says calmly as he pulls back and smacks my ass, full on spanks this time that sting. The sting, though, is nothing compared to the pain I feel at the absence of cock. "Be still." "Yes Sir," I reply softly. I have to focus now. I must be still or there will be no cock. My mind tries to block out the anticipation of cock inside me in favor of the teasing feelings that are returning with my stillness. As if to compensate for my erroneous movement, he is slower now, sliding his cock gently along my wetness, stopping just short of a hard thrust inside. I stay still. I breathe. I begin to sweat from the effort of holding my body still, of holding off the lust inside me that wants to explode. "You may beg now, bitch," he croons to me without ceasing his teasing strokes. "Please fuck me, please Sir, please shove your cock inside me and fuck me, please fuck me like a little bitch in heat, oh please Sir, please I need it. I need your cock inside me, because I'm a bitch in heat and I'm made to be fucked." The words, and more like them, gush out of me. Not being able to move makes the words flow forth as if from a bursting dam. I need this release, and I know there's only one way that I might get it. I have to beg well. I have to debased myself, humiliate myself for cock. That's the deal. My words get cut off as I feel the head of his cock thrust inside me, just a hard little jab, barely penetration, but so intense after all the teasing. "No one told you to stop," he teases as my silence stretches on just a bit too long. I know I want more than that little taste, so I continue in my litany. "Oh god yes, please yes, oh god Sir, yes, please fuck this little bitch." I tremble. I am absolutely caught by his cock inside me, trapped firmly in a cage of my own lust, and I love it. I feel so good as his cock hungry bitch. Then I lose the capacity for rational thought as his cock plunges deeply inside the cunt between my legs. I can feel his hands on my hips, holding them still as he pulls back and pistons in again, deeper this time. My body struggles to contain him; I can feel myself stretching. His cock is so big and thick that the spice of pain is layering on top of the pleasure it creates inside me. My arms fail, eventually, not from weakness per se, but from a diversion of all my energies elsewhere. I become nothing but a hole to be fucked, and the rest of me melts into a puddle around his hard pounding cock. As his speed increases, words pour forth from my mouth. "Please--" I gasp out, "please cum in me Sir, please cum please please please cum in bitch." He pounds faster, harder in response, but does not cum. My voice spirals from words to squeals and screams of pleasure, louder and louder, when abruptly, cock is gone. I sag, head down, ass up. He smacks my ass again, just a couple pats, for a good little bitch. "Leave," he says. I scramble to the foyer. Once I am between the curtain and the door to the outside, I rearrange myself as best I can. Hair is finger-combed into place, and I put on my shirt and skirt. All the other clothing that I wore to work is shoved into my shoulder bag, along with my shoes. I prefer going barefoot to wearing heels with dirty stockings. Not to mention I don't have the time it would take to get my stockings and garter belt arranged. I exit the apartment as fast as I can, locking the door behind me. As I walk the block and a half to the house where my Husband lives, I am eager to tell Him all about it. How I begged for Jessica to cum inside me, even though he doesn't have a dildo that can do that. Not yet, anyway. How he was dressed to conceal his femininity; he must have bound his breasts to look so flat-chested today. How he fucked me into a puddle of goo. I know it's disingenuous to refer to Jessica as my boyfriend, but that's the deal. That's our relationship. We fulfill certain needs for each other, and there are other needs that we don't. We role-play for the sake of our own titillation and to respect my Husband's ownership of me. It's all part of the deal. To be continued... The Deal of My Life Ch. 02 It didn't start that way with Jessica. I think it would have been impossible to start our relationship in the form that it currently exists. Neither of us would have been ready, emotionally or intellectually, to trust the other in such a special way at first. It's difficult enough to talk in relationships, let alone about those sexual fantasies that titillate us so much that we feel they must be weird and unique. And I haven't even mentioned the relationship that Master and Jessica have. With a many-party relationship, there are many considerations to be made, and I think our success starts with structure. When you go to work, you have a title and a responsibility. There are people over you, people under you, or at the least, people to whom you are held accountable. You have a role. In personal relationships, again, there are roles, and I think when we let society define those roles for us as our jobs define our work roles, we lose touch with our own needs and desires. We lose the ability to make ourselves happy, because we are too busy trying to fulfill expectations that don't really exist. Society doesn't really care that I consider myself owned property of my Husband and fuck toy of my boyfriend Jessica. Nothing I do is harmful to society, though I do try not to call too much attention to my preferences in the public sphere. I do want to keep my job, after all, and you can get fired for the stupidest shit. In addition to structure, there is at least one other aspect that keeps life harmonious. Before we met Jessica, my Husband and I had been trying to learn how not to take things personally. This was a challenge for both of us, because we are so intimately involved in each others' lives, but it has made the relationship much easier to maintain in the long run. We've definitely made progress, but it is on on-going challenge, because the habits of a lifetime are hard to break. I do think it's more of a challenge for me though. After all, as His slave, I have a much more vested interest in His opinion that He has of mine. Not that He doesn't pay attention to my opinions, it's just when it comes to decisions in our relationship, His is the only word. That is our structure of compromise. He decides, but I do get to advise and comment and make my arguments. I like it that way, because I tend to be rather less than ideally decisive. My mind branches out in so many directions, considering so many possible outcomes to a choice that I freeze up rather than decide. He, on the other hand, might make a decision very quickly without considering all the relevant ramifications, which is where my attention to detail comes in handy. He calls me His PDA sometimes, and I can't disagree with the description. It's silly to me when compromise is taken to mean a 50/50 split. To me, compromise is about agreeing how to disagree while moving forward. A stand-off is no way to compromise, but a great way to end a relationship. These are almost the exact words I wrote on a message board a few years ago. My ideas got the attention of a local female with the username jsass. We proceeded to have a heated argument on the board. She didn't believe that anything I said would ever work. I responded to each of her rejoinders to the best of my ability, and tried really hard not to take any of her casual internet insults personally. I didn't succeed entirely, but I did manage to keep my end of the public exchange civil. She ended up taking heat for her vehemence against me, but despite her getting in trouble on the boards, she invited me out for coffee and I, with Master's permission, accepted. When I first met Master in person, something clicked between us. It wasn't physical, more like meta-physical. Before I met Jessica, I thought that kind of thing happened once if you were lucky. Now I believe that if someone is worth the long term investment of time and emotion, you know it when you meet them. I've invested plenty of emotional time and energy over the years with various people, hoping to create that spark, but in my experience, it's either there or it isn't. You can't create it. I was nervous for the coffee meeting, but not more than my normal 'new social situation' nervousness, so I mostly ignored it. Master walked with me to within a couple blocks of the coffee shop so we could spend time talking. I was chatty, but not really talking about anything. He allowed me to hug Him goodbye before we parted ways, and I savored His scent as we embraced. Then I squared my shoulders and headed off to meet my erstwhile online enemy. She had sent me an email, after I accepted her invitation, describing how I would know her at the coffee shop. "I'll be the skinny blonde looking out of place," she had written. Surprisingly, that described her well enough for me to find her when I walked in. Of course, it helped that the coffee shop we had decided on tended to be empty. I don't know how it stays in business, but I rarely see other customers whenever I go there. That actually makes it a really great meeting place for Master and myself, but now I totally can't reveal where it is. Wouldn't want it to get unusefully popular, now would I? She didn't look out of place as far as how she was dressed, but there was a definite sense about her that she felt out of place, or at least that's how I perceived her body language. She seemed ready to get up and leave at any moment, to flee. As if she were counting the seconds until she could reasonably say that I hadn't shown up on time. I ignored her as I got coffee, more to see what she would do than any sensible reason. When I finished my coffee transaction, I turned to find her looking at me. She knew. I hadn't fooled her. I filed that information away, but of course, with so few customers, it isn't as if the guess was a difficult one. She stood as I approached and held out her hand. "Jessica," she said. "Nice to meet you Jessica. I'm Tara." We shook hands, and really, it was then that I knew this could be something more. Touching her hand with mine, I felt sparks, or current or something that electrified my spirit. I knew that she would be worth the time for me, and I wanted her to feel that I could be worth her time too. Her hand was warm, dry and strong. Standing, she was about 5'8" wearing flat shoes. I knew I'd be dwarfed by her if I weren't wearing three inch heeled sandals. I had a moment of intimidation at seeing how skinny she really was, but I've learned to love my body's curves too much to really covet a flat stomach. Or so I tell myself. We sat in big cushy armchairs that cornered each other. I got the ball rolling by immediately tossing it to her, a technique that I find both cheaterly and effective. "So, what made you decide to invite me to coffee?" I asked, keeping my tone light, teasing. I didn't want to scare her away. I wanted to hook her and reel her in. Is it wrong to think of a person like that? Maybe it's just wrong not to admit how we interact with people every day as predator, prey, and bait. "I didn't think you were real, mostly," she replied, eyes sliding away when mine sought contact. "I still don't think that your ideas work in the real world. Why would anyone want to cede their rights to another person's decision making? I don't understand it." "But you want to understand it?" "Yes. It bugs me." Jessica agitatedly swept her bangs out of her face. They were so long, she was either growing them out or just didn't bother with haircuts very often. The rest of her hair was tied back in a tail. An old t-shirt and worn jeans matched her flat all purpose athletic type shoes, but the overall look was careless. Her face was lovely to me. I know my tastes aren't universal, based on whom the media finds attractive versus my personal tastes, but the clean lines and strong bones of her face looked just right to my eyes. When I finally got a good look at her eyes, I could see they were hazel. She reminded me of a young skater boy type. And I've always had a thing for girls with a bit of dykiness to them. "Then I'll try to explain it, but I don't know if I'll be able to convince you of anything other than my own insanity." She grinned at that. "I'm already convinced you're insane Tara." "Well then, my job is done," I joked. "Seriously though, my decision to cede my decision-making powers to my Husband gives me quite a lot of freedom, and is an integral part of my happiness. I have a hard time making decisions, whereas He is quite good at it." "I've read that line," she sighed. "I know why you claim to feel and do the things that you do. What I want to know is why? What made you, you in particular, choose this life?" I sat for a moment to think about my response. I decided to give an honest answer, even though I felt that this would forever brand me in anyone's eyes as an untouchable freak. On some level, I agreed with her incredulity, because on some level I could hardly believe that I was living the life that I was. But I couldn't argue with results, and the results of my life have been so much more positive with Master than before Him. "It started with sex. I know that might seem shallow, but that's where it started for me. In high school and college, I experienced a few BDSM type sexual encounters. So when I met a guy in college who was also into such interests, I thought I had found what I was looking for. My problem was in not understanding that he and I were, in some ways, too alike. Both of us wanted to be done; neither of us were particularly into the doing part. "Eventually, I convinced him to join a local BDSM group. This took about two years to do, because he was afraid and generally anti-social, but we did it. I immediately began to try to get involved on the message boards of the group online, because it seemed a safe way to dabble. I added people to my instant messenger list and I chatted. Through a series of stupid moves I met the Man that would become Master and Husband to me. Our whole relationship was built on a premise of Master and slave, though at first we couched it in terms of Dominant and submissive. "Every day, I have a choice Jessica. Every day, I know that I can end this relationship. So far, every day I choose to remain His slave. I do it because I am happy. Being on my own, having to make my own decisions, it doesn't work for me. It isn't that I'm not smart, or not capable of making decisions. I just don't like it. It doesn't suit me. It isn't who I am. I'm awful at making decisions, but I am really great at following through on His decisions, and helping Him to have all the information He needs to make an informed decision." Jessica had been listening intently from the look on her face, but now she frowned. "But doesn't that make you a horrible person?" she asked. "I mean, not to say that you are, but isn't it just wrong to let someone else run your life? Isn't that letting down years of feminists who fought so that you could be an independent and free woman in our society?" I sighed. "For one, I don't feel that I owe anyone anything for the free choices that they make. By the same token, I don't expect anything from anyone for the choices that I make. Beyond that, didn't they fight for the right for women to choose how to live their lives? I make my choice every day; who are they to tell me that I am wrong for choosing what I do? I hate the idea that because some political activist twenty years ago chose to live a certain way, and helped shape the world that I now live in, I am somehow betraying an ideal by my choices, simply on the grounds that they are different from said dead activist. "I want to be happy, and I want to live my life. Master and I are not hurting anyone by living the way that we do." "But you can't bring children into that kind of relationship," Jessica countered. I rolled my eyes. "Then it's a good thing I have no interest in having any children." "But, then, um, why are you married?" "Insurance." "Seriously?" "Yes. And so that He can legally lay claim to me. Marriage, the last bastion of legal slavery!" She laughed and I joined her. Then I did something I never would have thought possible before being with Master. "So, I have to say that I find you very attractive. My marriage is not a bar to my having relationships with women. May I take you to see a movie? We can just see what's playing across the street and go from there?" She looked shocked, but also flattered, and in that moment I knew I had her. For once, my blunt forward approach had worked. I had dizzied her with philosophical and sexual jargon, shaking her defenses before setting the hook. I was pretty excited to tell Master all about it. But first, I hoped to have more to tell Him. "Sure. This is crazy. But sure. If there's anything good playing that is," she responded, stumbling over the words tumbling out of her mouth. Walking to the theater, I courted her. I held doors; I looked at her with heat in my eyes. I could feel the sexual tension mounting between us, and I fed the flames as best I could. We chose the latest generic action flick. I found that she agreed with my personal credo that a movie seen in a theater should be shiny enough to justify the ticket price. I don't have anything against good cinema, but I don't feel the need to see it on the big screen if it's essentially people talking. My other reason for choosing a mindless action flick was that it would have plenty of noise to hide any noises I might be able to draw from Jessica. I had made out in movie theaters before, even going so far as some petting and touching with another person. I had masturbated (frequently) in theaters before with no ill consequences, but that wasn't on my agenda right at that moment. I wanted to see how far I could go, how far she would go with me. I just had this feeling, this gut sense that this would be an adventure for both of us, if only I got it started. As it was a weeknight, the theater was not crowded, which suited my plans just fine. I just needed to sound her out, just a bit more. I didn't want to do that in the dark of the theater. "Do you want popcorn or something?" I asked after we had bought our tickets and entered the butter-scented lobby. "No, I'm not hungry and I hate having drinks at movies. I always end up needing to leave to pee if I drink anything," she replied. "How about we do a pit stop before picking our seats? I always like to get one last bladder emptying completed before settling in." I held out my crooked arm for her to take, and, miracle of miracles, she did. "Sure, that's a good idea," she said as she took my arm and followed me to the bathrooms. Her touch on my skin felt much cooler than her hand had been when we shook earlier. A coolness that made a tingle travel up my arm and directly between my legs. The bathroom was empty, or at least, empty enough. I led her down to the farthest stall from the door. When I followed her inside and locked the stall, she didn't look surprised. I positioned myself so that we faced each other, her back to the door and mine to the toilet. She had a little of the deer-caught-in-headlights glaze to her eyes, but she didn't protest. I paused, because I wanted her to have a chance to say no and end it before I pushed us over the edge. "I thought you were submissive," she said, her voice soft and breathy. "This doesn't look like submissive to me." In answer, I took her face in my hands and pulled her in for a kiss. I started with a gentle brush of lips, eyes open and trying to read hers. I could feel her lips tremble before she gave in, closing her eyes and opening her mouth to mine. My hands moved back into her hair, messing up her pony tail as I slid my fingers along her scalp, experimenting with nails and little pulls of her hair. Her hands, which had started by her side, took my hips and slid towards my ass before hesitating. Still kissing her, I put one of my hands on hers, moving it over my ass, giving her permission, since she seemed to be asking for it. After that she squeezed and kneaded at my flesh and I pressed into her, pushing her against the door, standing on tip toe to caress her breasts with my own. I broke off. "We'll miss the movie if we don't get going," I said quietly, keeping eye contact. Her skin was flushed, and she looked happy, to me. "Would that be so bad?" she asked. I smiled wickedly at her, or at least that's what I was going for. "The theater is dark and loud with seating. This place is kinda bright and totally lacking in appropriate seating," I replied, gesturing to the toilet behind me. We giggled. "True." We went to separate stalls to conclude the original purpose of the bathroom visit and left the bathroom arm in arm and a bit punch drunk. The ticket girl was busy texting and hardly paid us any attention, which somehow just made the situation funnier. "Theater three to your right enjoy the show." "We intend to," I murmured to Jessica, and I was pretty sure she blushed, but even in the lobby, the lighting was dim enough to make it difficult to tell for sure. I felt high as we entered the theater, buoyed by the unexpected success of my advances. I was going to see how far I would go, and how far she would go, and the prospect frankly aroused me. We walked together into the stadium style seating of the theater, and proceeded to hike our way up to the very back row of the unoccupied theater. The movie would be starting soon, but the screen was still playing commercials and the lights remained up. We sat angled to face each other with the separating arm rest up. "So, care to tell me exactly how your recent behavior qualifies as submissive?" Jessica asked, her tone light but challenging. "Just because I can be sexually aggressive doesn't mean I'm not submissive," I replied, giving my best innocent face (which honestly is not at all innocent). "Okay, sure, except how do you explain how any kind of aggression could possibly be submissive?" "Aggressive and submissive are not antonyms. Aggressive is the opposite of passive, not submissive. To me, at least, being submissive does not mean being passive. How boring would sex be with someone who was completely passive, right? Master doesn't want me to be passive and be silent as He makes a mistake. It isn't as if He's perfect. I would be betraying our relationship if I were to passively allow, for example, Him to make a wrong turn if I know that our destination lies in a different direction. Sometimes I'll be told to be quiet after such corrections, because He has a different plan, but I have to be active and make them." "But in your relationship, would you make an advance on him like you did on me?" she asked. "Absolutely. Part of our relationship is the understanding that I'm a slut. As a slut, I want sex pretty much all the time. I am required to express my desire for sex to Him, and leave it up to Him as to whether sex will be pursued at any given moment. I did the same with you. Questions, not demands. At least, that's what I was going for." She smiled as I gave her hopeful eyes. Then the lights began to dim. I took a glance around and was delighted to see it was still empty but for us. "I love previews," Jessica said, leaning back and looking toward the screen. "They're always so much better than the actual movie that they're advertising. Everything rolled up into a neat little package. Especially for remakes, because you already know how they end." "Yeah, but I hate when the preview shows all the good parts so when you do go see the movie there's nothing left that's worth paying for." Jessica nodded and yawned ostentatiously, stretching her arms way overhead, performing the cheesy classic move and settling her arm around my shoulders. I snuggled up against her, leaning my head tantalizingly close to her breasts as we watched the previews. I was content to be patient. We had a whole 90 minutes to play. The Deal of My Life Ch. 02 During the previews, we began to dance. I leaned in closer to her breasts. She slid her arm closer to my breasts. All so slowly, carefully asking our ways across each other's bodies. I could feel heat building in my body, radiating from between my legs. I was wearing a skirt and no underwear, because that's how Master likes me to dress. Her jeans were going to be in the way of any forays I might want to make, but she had a clear path, if she dared to take it. I shifted and caught the scent of my arousal over the smell of stale popcorn and sugar. "I can smell you," Jessica said, her voice soft and dirty. I put a hand on her leg in response as the feature began, caressing her through the denim, before giving her knee a test squeeze. She jerked her leg. Ticklish. I moved my hand higher up to her thigh and let it rest, for the moment. The theater remained empty, and for once I was thankful for the gougingly high ticket prices. Our hands played along clothing and skin, delicately testing the waters for a good half of the film. We were each facing the screen, but I couldn't tell you the plot of the movie. All my attention was on her; her breath, slowing and quickening in response to my touch; her heart beating; the smell of her arousal fighting through her pants. Then Jessica took over. She pulled her arm away and pushed me down, positioning me so that my ass was in her lap and my head was on a seat. I gladly let her take the lead, and breathlessly waited for her to do whatever she wanted. "Shhhh," she said before sliding her hand under my skirt. She grinned when her hand found the cunt between my legs to be slick and ready, but only teased me with a swirl of fingers. She pulled out her hand and offered it to my mouth. I sucked her fingers clean of the juices she had acquired. She pulled her hand away and wiped it off in my hair. The use of my hair as a towel turned me on even more. I can't help it, I get off on being used. She smiled at me, her face illuminated by the intermittent light of the screen, before pulling my torso up so that she could kiss me. We made out for a bit, me on her lap, hands seeking flesh, tongues dueling, like teenagers sneaking to the theater to fuck. She pushed me back, gasping for a full breath and said, "This is weird, but I like it." I settled back into my seat, snuggling up next to her and replied, "Welcome to my life."