Gromet's PlazaTG/CD Stories

Latex Suburban Housewife

by Misti Love-Fitzpatrick

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© Copyright 2019 - Misti Love-Fitzpatrick - Used by permission

Storycodes: Solo-M; M/f; M2f; cd; tg; ts; bond; latex; leather; hood; cuffs; magic; cons; X

Continues from

Chapter 3

As Loc left the nightclub floor, I asked Mr. Goldstein if he would drive me to the place where I would be administered the Elixir, the potion which was my hope for M2F transformation.

“That’s not the standard procedure,” he replied. “Loc does the transporting.”

“I thought with the intimacy that we shared, that it would be nice to be together longer. I feel close to you now. Please,” I said.

“Flowers and chocolates?” Mr. Goldstein asked.

I stuck my tongue out at him.

He laughed and kissed me. With our tongues entwined, we resumed the passion that had unfolded on the nearby stage and ended with me sucking his cock. I felt the gusset of my black rubber panties moisten again.

“Where did you buy this?” he asked, referring to my black leather dress with its matching short jacket.

“Online from a company in Berlin. Cost me a small fortune.”

He ran his hands softly over the skintight leather that accentuated my artificial 38DD-size breasts.

“I have a feeling that you’ll be shopping in Berlin yourself one day. Do you have any idea how much a gentleman would like to slide his cock between these big breasts if they were real?” Mr. Goldstein asked.

“No, tell me about it,” I said.

“Just fond wishes,” he replied with a warm smile.

Loc returned with a metal box. Mr. Goldstein told him there was a change of plans.

“I’m going to transport Patricia. Go ahead and get everything set up for the Elixir,” he told Loc. I could tell this annoyed Loc, the manger of the nightclub, a confidante of Mr. Goldstein’s, and the man who administered the potion.

“That’s not the procedure we agreed on, Boss,” Loc said. Mr. Goldstein said he understood, but it was his call. When Loc left, Mr. Goldstein opened the box and removed a pair of black leather straps. He attached them to my thighs, above the top of my tall leather boots. A sturdy silver chain connected the straps.

“Why do I need to be bound?” I asked.

“You ask a lot of questions,” Mr. Goldstein said.

Mr. Goldstein removed a pair of silver handcuffs and attached them to my wrists. They clicked shut.

“I hope you have a lot of answers,” I replied.

“I don’t like your smart mouth, Patricia. You need to address me as Master.”

“You’re kidding me.”

As the words left my mouth, I knew I had made an egregious error. Mr. Goldstein’s hazel eyes immediately turned cold, the shade of the sky before a nasty storm. The look he gave me was piercing.

Oh, I just fucked up – royally.

He raised his voice, telling me not to say a word or to move.

He placed a hood over my short blonde wig. I could tell it was made of latex, from its feel and smell. The hood had holes for my nostrils and mouth. Mr. Goldstein fitted a blindfold over my eyes and tied it behind my head, a redundancy to ensure I could not see.

“We had a problem with a patient who changed her mind about the Elixir. She could have simply opted out, but she almost jumped out of the vehicle while being transported. It would have been a tragedy. That’s why we bind patients, but you didn’t give me the respect to explain that,” Mr. Goldstein told me angrily.

I heard Loc’s voice, but I couldn’t make out the words. Mr. Goldstein told him: “We’re going to be a while. I need to discipline Patricia. You’ll still administer the Elixir to her, but it will be in two hours or so.”

Standing in front of me, Mr. Goldstein tugged on the leash attached to the large D-ring of my silver metal collar to get me to move. I stumbled, not accustomed to the thigh restraints. As I began to fall, Mr. Goldstein caught me.

“Go slow,” he said sternly.

The only sound in the club was my five-inch stiletto boot heels as I inched forward. Stopping me, Mr. Goldstein took my cuffed wrists and told me to grip the edge of a table. I could tell it was round, like the one we had sat at an hour or so ago.

“Lean forward over the table,” he ordered me. I didn’t hesitate to do so, although I felt like I was going to tip over. I wasn’t going to ask him to remove my high-heel boots.

“Patricia, you said only 30 minutes ago that you understood that you’re my property. And then I tell you to address me as `Master’ and your response is: `You’re kidding me.’ You’re a smart 22-year-old woman, but you have a smart mouth.

“What does that mean? You have an ability to make impertinent comments. That’s a problem. It is not profitable for me or you for this to continue,” Mr. Goldstein said. “That’s why I am disciplining you.”

I felt him unzip the lower back of my leather dress. He slowly raised the hem, revealing my black rubber panties. He ran his fingers methodically over the thick rubber. He lowered my panties to get full access to my ass.

“Your skin is white and creamy. Soon it will be pink and likely purple,” he told me, reaching down to release the thigh restraint.

“Spread your legs, Patricia.” I did so. He told me when to stop.

“Good girl.”

“I’ll be back soon. Do not move.”

I was terrified. I had wanted to apologize to him, to explain my sassy comment was unintentional and I understood my error. But he had told me not to talk. As time passed, I began to feel panic. Where had he gone? What he was doing? When would he return? Was he going to leave me there?

About 20 minutes had passed, or maybe 30. I heard Mr. Goldstein walk onto the club floor.

Without warning, he used his right hand to spank my left ass cheek. He waited 30 seconds and did it again. In between his spanking, he caressed the cheek lovingly. To myself, I counted the spankings. Five. Ten. They didn’t hurt much.

And then he spanked my left cheek ten times without stopping and harder. I whimpered as the pain began to grip me. I felt a stinging and held on tighter to the edge of the table. He spanked me ten more times without pausing. I gritted my teeth and could hear my boot heels click on the floor as my legs moved from the force of his hand. I lost count of how many times he spanked me.

Mr. Goldstein did the same with my right ass cheek and I began to cry out. My derriere felt like it was on fire. He stopped the spanking. A minute passed. I could hear him move away from me and then back to the table. He leaned forward and spoke to me in a near-whisper.

“I’m usually not nostalgic, Patricia. But the short, black whip I’m holding is special. Twenty-five years ago, I was driving through a small town in France. I stopped for lunch and in an alley nearby, I saw a tack store. This was the only displayed in the window. I walked inside and the owner asked what type of horse I owned. I told him I didn’t own one. He looked at me quizzically.

“He said a whip was like an extension of your arm. The mere sight of would make a horse respond. A few taps usually would make a reluctant horse cross a stream or a bridge. ‘What you need to never forget is a whip is a last resort,’ the store owner told me.

“Patricia, this is a last resort. When you are alone with me, whether that’s in the office or the boudoir, you will address me as Master. This is much bigger than me, though. This is about correcting your behavior. You will not be impudent when you are with a gentleman like Mr. Yusuf Barzigan.”

That name, again.

I screamed as the whip struck my left ass cheek. It made a sharp cracking sound. I began to cry from the pain. I knew I was supposed to be quiet, but I could not be. I lost my breath. Mr. Goldstein paused, knowing it was temporary. I took a deep breath.

As I stopped crying, I could hear what sounded like Mr. Goldstein waving the whip in the air. Then I felt his whip against my right ass cheek. The pain was intense, much deeper than him spanking me with an open hand. The whip bit into me. As Mr. Goldstein alternated between my ass cheeks, my screams intensified as the number of lashes reached twenty or more.

He stopped suddenly. Without a word, Mr. Goldstein reattached the thigh restraints, pulled my rubber panties over my ass, and rezipped my dress.

“You can speak now, Patricia,” he said.

“Master,” I said with a clear voice.

Mr. Goldstein picked me up and carried me outside. He set me down on what felt like the back seat of a sports utility vehicle or van. I lay face down. I felt a pill on my tongue that tasted bitter as he told me to swallow. It was warm in the vehicle and I soon fell asleep.

I awoke as Mr. Goldstein carried me out of the vehicle. I could feel the night chill. We walked into a building. Still groggy from the sleep, I asked him if he would stay.

“I have to go now. Loc will take care of you. You’ve told me that it’s been a whirlwind since you began to work for me. But if things go well here, all of those things will pale in comparison,” he said.

He removed the thigh restraints, the handcuffs, and the latex hood with its blindfold. He unlocked the collar around my neck and took it off. He led me into what looked like a doctor’s office. There were no windows.

“Welcome to the Transformation Unit,” Mr. Goldstein said.

Loc told me I needed to get undressed, to remove my wig and jewelry.

“Do you have any piercings?” he asked.

I said I had a navel ring. He said that would need to be removed too. He consulted a check list and satisfied, he handed me a loose-fitting white smock and walked out to give me some privacy.

He returned 20 minutes later to explain what he called the “protocol.”

“The first dose usually is the smallest, but Mr. Goldstein has decided to be more aggressive. I will strap you to this operating table, for your safety, and give you an anesthetic. As you sleep, I will monitor you,” he said.

My ass throbbed with pain, but I decided not to mention that. I asked how long I would sleep.

“Usually from 8 to 20 hours.”

My dreams were vivid, but when I regained consciousness, I remembered only one of them. It resembled a slide show – a series of images in rich color.

A white picket fence. A lawn with dark green grass that stretched to a stream. A black street sign with the word “Thistledown” in white letters.

I knew immediately that my body had changed. I had breasts and a vagina – what would become natural to me within months was new like a birth. There was a myriad of other changes, like the narrowing of my fingers, the slight change in the shape of my face, and my hair that was now long and thick. Taking notice of each one, I felt powerful emotions of bliss and surprise. I could not see my body because I remained strapped to the operating table. My joy manifested itself in my smile and tears. I wanted to see my new body, the focus of my dreams for so long.

I could hear Loc speaking in the adjacent room, presumably with Mr. Goldstein.

“It’s never occurred this way,” Loc said. “At triple the dosage, the transformation is complete. I can’t believe it. The risk paid off.”

Loc ended the call and walked into the room where I lay on the operating table.

“Patricia, something amazing has happened. You’ve undergone a complete transformation. Multiple physical changes and there also may be personality changes. We won’t know about those for weeks, perhaps months. This is a cause of celebration for our technology, but the most important celebration is for you. There’s a room down the hall with mirrors. I will show you.”

Loc removed the straps and helped me stand. I felt weak.

“How long have I been asleep?” I asked. My voice was different, with a higher pitch. I loved how I sounded. Loc said he did too.

“Twenty-three hours. It’s 3 a.m. Monday. Mr. Goldstein will be here soon to pick you up. He’s ecstatic.”

Loc unlocked the room for me and I walked in. There were floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the four walls. I first noticed my hair in the reflection – blonde and hanging slightly below my shoulders. I ran my fingers through it and felt its thickness. My fingers were slightly shorter and narrower.

The shape of my face had changed, my nose thinner, my lips fuller and jaw less pronounced. The color of my eyes had changed from green to blue, and my face was slightly rounder.

I slipped the smock off and it fell to the floor. I was nude and I shrieked with delight as I saw my breasts for the first time. They were bigger than my previous artificial ones. I ran my fingers lightly over the big nipples and felt them harden. More tears of joy came, uncontrollable as I felt my breasts’ fullness and firmness.

My pussy was beautiful. For almost half an hour, I stood close to the mirror, savoring my body’s most profound change; one that would not completely sink in until much later.

Turning around, I noticed my ass was rounder and fuller than before. I laughed and twerked twice. My legs were slightly longer, the shape more curvaceous.

There was a knock on the door. I grabbed the smock and placed it on. Mr. Goldstein embraced me as I opened the door.

“How can I ever thank you for this, Master?” I asked. I began to cry joyfully again, but this time I was sobbing, overcome with appreciation for what Mr. Goldstein had done for me.

“You don’t have to thank me, Patricia. This is something you desired and I’m so overjoyed that you have received it. You’re a woman.”

I’m a woman.

I repeated those words to myself over and over. I got dressed and as Mr. Goldstein drove me to my apartment, he let me lose myself in my thoughts. He said there had not been a complete transformation like this on the first dosage. I asked Mr. Goldstein what I should say when people noticed the changes in my appearance.

“Well, we need to discuss that later. I’d like you to take a week off. Relax. You’re going to need new clothes. Shop till you drop. And we should celebrate the new you.”

I thanked him for the time off.

“I hope you don’t mind being a blonde,” he added. “It’s on the long list of things we can’t control.”

“Master, I love being a blonde.”

“You might get some flak from jealous, mean bitches at cocktail parties, though.”

“I hope not, Master,” I replied. It struck me as an odd thing for him to say.

Mr. Goldstein walked me to my apartment. At the door, he kissed me good night. I was exhausted. I undressed and flopping on the bed, I soon fell asleep.

A white picket fence. A lawn with dark green grass that stretched to a stream. A black street sign with the word “Thistledown” in white letters. A woman in a large, expensively outfitted kitchen, looking outside at bright sunshine.

I woke up with a start. It was the same dream I had the day before, but with one new image. I looked at the clock on my nightstand. It was noon. I turned on my smart phone. There was a text from Mr. Goldstein, its tone more formal than I anticipated.

Patricia, I hope you are thrilled with your new life. As we discussed, this instant M2F transformation has not occurred before with the Elixir. You inquired about what you should say when people notice the changes in your appearance. I would like permission to inform Yusuf Barzigan first about what has occurred.

I stared at the text and replied.

Why, Master?

Well, I should ask first. Do you want to return to work?

Of course, Master.

I want to get your thoughts on this, but we’ll need to tell the firm’s employees. And I’d prefer that Mr. Barzigan finds out before them. Just as a courtesy. He’s our most important prospective client and as you know, he has expressed an interest in having seeing you when he visits the States next.

Can we talk about this on the phone, Master?

My phone rang.

“So Master, what would you tell Mr. Barzigan?” I asked.

“You have referred to yourself as TG. But the definition is someone with a ‘desire to live and be accepted as a member of the opposite sex without surgery,’

“The definition of a transsexual is a ‘person who has undergone hormone treatment and surgery to attain the physical characteristics of the opposite sex.’ ”

“So I would tell him that you were TS and now are a biological woman,” Mr. Goldstein said.

“I don’t see how these labels matter, Master” I said. “I did not want surgery. I don’t consider the Elixir to be surgery. I didn’t undergo hormone treatments.”

“I know but I can’t tell Mr. Barzigan about the Elixir. I’m sure you understand it’s a trade secret.”

I didn’t respond.

“I can’t change society, but definitions of gender identity do matter,” Mr. Goldstein continued. “I expect he will ask me again whether he can have drinks with you. This time I will say yes. I just need to have your consent to tell him about your new gender reality,” he added.

“How do you expect him to react, Master?” I said.

“Everything I know about him tells me he will react positively.”

“Master, you have my consent,” I told Mr. Goldstein and we ended the call. My boss had what he needed.

My emotions were jumbled. I made myself breakfast and took a long walk through my neighborhood. Thinking about Mr. Goldstein, I found myself phoning Brian, the former military officer who was in charge of security at Mr. Goldstein’s hedge fund. Returning to my apartment, I left a voicemail asking Brian to call me when he had time. He had said he was available to talk if I needed someone.

I had another need -- shopping. I had seen an ad in an alt weekly for a new lingerie shop. It was only two miles from my home. I drove there and found it was not crowded as I walked in. The clerk greeted me warmly. She looked about my age.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“Could you please measure me for a new bra,” I asked.

“Of course, I can,” the clerk said. I was wearing jeans and a big, loosely-fitting sweatshirt, not my best look.

“What’s your usual size?”

“38DD, but it feels too small,” I replied. Actually, my bras felt really small.

She introduced herself as Alexis. She was a goth, dressed in black with purple hair and a pentagram necklace big enough to capture the devil’s attention. She also wore ripped fishnet stockings and calf-high boots with a come-fuck-me platform heel.

“I’m Patricia, pleased to meet you.”

Alexis ushered me to the backroom. She said if any customers entered the shop, a bell would go off. I removed my sweatshirt. I was bra-less.

“Wow, you’re stacked,” she said.

She measured my bust size, her fingers working the tape measure expertly.

“42DD. Certainly matches the eye test. I have a lot of experience with boobs.”

I put my sweatshirt back on. Alexis playfully took my hand as we returned to the shop floor.

“Any style in particular?” she asked.

“Something sheer in white?”

Alexis nodded. “We have this bra-and-panty set in black, beige, red, and green.”

“I’ll take one of each,” I said.

Returning from the storage room, she handed me the bras and matching panties. She rang up the purchase and placed my new underwear in a pink bag for me.

“I hope you come back, Patricia,” Alexis said.

“I’m sure I will.”

When I returned to my apartment, a message was waiting from Brian. I returned his call.

“Hi, Brian. It’s Patricia from work. I hope I’m not interrupting your weekend,” I said.

“Of course not, Patricia.”

I didn’t know how to lead up to my question. Making small talk was not one of my strengths, but I gave it my best. I explained that I wouldn’t be at work the following week and told a half-truth.

“I’m behind on my grad studies and Mr. Goldstein was gracious enough to give me the time off,” I said.

“He is an understanding boss, but also complex,” Brian commented.

I saw my opening.

“Brian, can I confide in you about something? I need to ask you some things and will you agree not to mention it to another soul?”

“I promise.” His voice was deeper on the phone.

“Mr. Barzigan is returning to the States in a few months. Mr. Goldstein said he expects he will ask Mr. Goldstein for permission to have drinks with me – and Mr. Goldstein told me he plans to say yes. Are you aware of that?”

Brian said he was. He said he also was aware that Mr. Goldstein had not given me permission the first time. I said I was surprised he knew that.

“Mr. Goldstein told me because I would have provided security for you. And I’ll be in charge of that if you end up having drinks with Mr. Barzigan when he visits again. He will have his own security detail. I think you saw two gentlemen who were with him when he met with Mr. Goldstein.”

I said I had. I didn’t know how to get to my question, so I ended up blurting it out. It was awkwardly-done, but I also felt relieved.

“Brian, does Mr. Goldstein have expectations for me with Mr. Barzigan?”

“I’m glad you asked that and it’s a good question. I’ve known Mr. Goldstein for several years. He expects you to develop a business relationship with Mr. Barzigan and other clients like him. But there are no expectations beyond that. And that’s not just rhetoric.

“As you know, I can’t talk in detail about the background check I’m doing on him, but I can tell you that there’s nothing out of the ordinary if he asks to have drinks with you. He does that with multiple people,” he said.

Not exactly what I was hoping to hear, Brian, but glad you’re honest.

I thanked Brian for his time. Later that night, there was a text from Mr. Goldstein.

I spoke with Mr. Barzigan. He appreciated hearing about your wonderful news. He is eager to congratulate you in person.

In my large walk-in closet, I pulled a pair of white silk stockings up my long legs. They were the ones I wore when I met Mr. Barzigan. I also wore the sheer white bra and panties I had bought that day. I lit a stick of incense. The phone rang. It was Mr. Goldstein’s number and I answered.

“Patricia, I need you to come over to my mansion. It’s time to celebrate.”

“Yes, Master.”

Mr. Goldstein texted me the address and instructions.

There will be a security guard at the gate. Make sure to bring your company ID. The front door will be open. There will be a bag waiting for you. I want you to use the small room at the top of the stairs to change into what I have left you. Then the bedroom will be the fourth room to your right. I can’t explain now, but you will NOT have to address me as Master.

An hour later, I pulled up to the gate and watched the guard spring out toward my car.

“Can I help you Miss?”

I told him I was Mr. Goldstein’s administrative assistant and showed him my ID. Opening the gate, the guard wished me a pleasant night. In the dark, I could not see much of the massive house set on a hill. Opening the front door, I found the bag that Mr. Goldstein left me and walked up the stairs.

Ducking into the room at the top of the staircase, I emptied the bag on the bed. The contents were a white latex dress with a micro-miniskirt hem, white high-heel pumps, and a container of silicone lubricant. I undressed and took a long shower.

I made sure I dried off well. I then applied a thin layer of the lubricant to my skin and to the inside of the dress. It took me almost half an hour to put the dress on because I didn’t want to accidentally rip it. It was strapless and low cut, perfect for showi ng off my ample cleavage.

I slipped on the pumps and walked to the door of the bedroom that Mr. Goldstein had mentioned. I knocked twice. He opened the door and kissed me as I entered. He was dressed formally – in a black suit with a silver tie.

“You look stunning in white latex. Patricia, I want to introduce you to my wife, Judith.”

Speechless is not the right word.

Judith strolled into the room from another door. Walking to me, she shook my hand and smiled. Judith wore a gray silk blouse, a black pencil skirt, and black pumps with a flat heel. Her jewelry was impressive, a big diamond ring and lots of gold around her neck and wrists. Her hair was black and piled high into a bun.

“Patricia, I want to congratulate you on your transformation,” Judith said. “This is a very special moment. My husband tells me it is the first time that a M2F transformation has occurred after the first dosage. This is life-changing for you.”

I thanked her, relieved this was not the explosive confrontation I had feared.

Mr. Goldstein uncorked a bottle of champagne and poured three glasses. He offered a toast.

“To Patricia, and her new life,” he said.

“And what will that new life be?” Judith asked.

“A happy one, I hope,” I said.

Mr. Goldstein sat down at his ornate desk in front of a fireplace on the far side of the bedroom. He motioned for me and Judith to take the chairs in front.

“Patricia, my wife and I have an open marriage. She knows that I am your owner. She knows that you performed fellatio on me. She knows I disciplined you for your impudence. There are no secrets between us. And there won’t be any secrets kept from you.”

His directness shocked me. Judith didn’t say a word.

“I have instructed my wife to enroll you in what I call the `charm school.’ You will continue to serve as my administrative assistant, but she and others will be your instructors in preparation for Mr. Barzigan’s visit. You will follow her orders as you follow mine. Do you understand?”

“I do.” I knew now why I didn’t have to call him Master. We weren’t alone and it would have been awkward to do so in front of his wife.

Judith watched my expression and jumped into the conversation.

“Patricia, I already think you’re charming, so ‘charm school’ is a bit of a misnomer,” she told me. “And I don’t want my husband and I to unintentionally insult you in any way. We know you have manners. We know you received a solid upbringing. Your work at the firm has been impeccable so far. We just want to help you with some of the social interactions that you may have with Mr. Barzigan. That’s all,” she said.

“Can you give me some details?” I asked.

Mr. Goldstein turned to Judith.

“Brian has done a background check on Mr. Barzigan,” Judith told me. “We’ll share more of that with you later, but this will give you a taste.” She read the list, stressing it was in no particular order.

  1. He often uses attractive women to get intel on companies.
  2. He has a short attention span when he speaks with someone socially, female or male.
  3. He enjoys the company of women who are gifted cooks.
  4. He speaks five languages fluently.
  5. He has had women escorted off his yacht for using cocaine or Ecstasy.
  6. He expects women to know a lot about wine, not in a snobbish way, but to speak about what they like in detail.
  7. He wants to move to the United States.
  8. He has no known relatives.
  9. He has had two relationships, but they were short-lived. In each one, he bought the woman’s clothing and decided what she would wear.
  10. He has multiple girlfriends, but none of them is a serious relationship.

Judith looked over at me as she finished reading the list.

“I don’t know how to cook,” I said. The three of us laughed.

Mr. Goldstein took the floor.

“Ready for another long-winded speech?” he asked.

I said I appreciated his sense of humor.

“It may be his best feature,” Judith added.

“Patricia, we’ve talked about this before. The firm is trying to get Mr. Barzigan as a client in our hedge fund. I anticipate he will ask again to have drinks with you. Our only expectation is that you will cultivate a relationship with him. That means you will represent the firm in a way that hopefully will be beneficial to all of us. If he wants to talk about wine, you will be a great person to have that conversation. If he wants to talk about Real Madrid, think fast and do your best.

“I need to be explicit about this. When I say relationship, I mean strictly in the business sense. We do not expect you to have a romantic or sexual relationship with him or anyone else. We would never do that to one of our employees. And frankly, I have a sense that he wants to meet with you to find out more about the hedge fund; that’s not saying you aren’t a beautiful woman, of course.”

I asked how I should handle those queries.

“You should answer them. We don’t release proprietary information often, but this would be an exception,” Mr. Goldstein said. “We’ll give you that information right before you meet with him.”

He added: “But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. So enough business talk. Let’s go get a drink and celebrate.”

We drove to a nightclub, one that Mr. Goldstein didn’t own. It was super-upscale after-hours bar, decorated with style and requiring a $100 cover charge. Mr. Goldstein ran into a judge he knew. He looked about 70, tall and thin with a goatee.

The judge kissed Judith on the cheek. She excused herself to go to the restroom. The judge also kissed me on the cheek as Mr. Goldstein introduced me.

“You’re a very beautiful young woman,” the judge said, and I thanked him, taking into account his age. His male gaze swept over my chest and my latex dress gave him a lot to ogle. I could tell Mr. Goldstein was aware.

The three of us chatted for about 15 minutes. There literally was a line to talk to his honor. Mr. Goldstein told me the judge was joining a prestigious lawsuit that would make him very wealthy.

As we congratulated the judge upon his retirement, Mr. Goldstein asked if he could get me a drink. I followed him to the bar. He ordered a glass of white wine for me and a scotch for himself.

“I should have warned you he’s a dinosaur. I apologize,” Mr. Goldstein said.

“No need, Master. He’s one of those men of a certain age,” I replied.

I added with a laugh: “My boobs sure got his attention, Master.”

Mr. Goldstein asked if he was staring.

“Master, I could see his eyes lower – and they never went back up.”

“Sorry about that.”

As we talked, Mr. Goldstein moved closer to me. The nightclub by now was jammed with about 400 people. Most of the crowd was congregated around the four-sided bar, a fire hazard in the making.

I felt his left hand on my upper thigh.

“Master,” I whispered in his ear.

“No one can see us,” he said. I felt his fingers move higher. I looked around. We were positioned in such a way that nobody was facing us.

“What about Judith, Master? What if he she comes over?”

“She’s talking to the judge. He’s fucked her several times. I want you to move into our mansion for ‘charm school.’ Judith agrees.”

“Yes, Master.”

My hem of my latex dress was so short that Mr. Goldstein didn’t have to move it. His index finger moved expertly under it, easily reaching my pussy. I spread my legs slightly, careful not to impale the guy with his back to me with my stilettos.

Looking up into his eyes, I felt Mr. Goldstein tantalizingly trace circles around my clitoris. My pulse quickened.

“You’re not going to make a sound, you promise?”

“I promise, Master.”

I bit my lip as he used one and then a second finger to touch me from the bottom of my slit to the patch of my blonde pubic hair. He parted my pussy lips and watched me react, my big tits heaving against the top of my latex dress. His expert touch turned me inside out.

“Honey, you’re so wet,” he whispered.

His fingers slid into my vagina. He began to finger-fuck me, slowly at first. I grasped his wrist, raking the tips of my long nails painted white against his skin. He returned to caressing my clit, tracing small circles. He moved his fingers back inside me, going deeper into my cunt. I wondered how his cock would fill inside me like that. He then touched my clit again, his fingers working faster.

I came swiftly in waves of intense pleasure, leaning into Mr. Goldstein’s chest to muffle my ecstasy. The raw power of the orgasm washed over my body, leaving me sated. My body was warm, like how my skin feels when I sun-bathe.

It would be the last time I would have sex with Mr. Goldstein, my Master.

No one can see into the future.


Continues in


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