She tried the dress on for the fifteenth time that month, and once again hoped that this time she'd feel different. As she stared into the full length mirror that had been moved into her room, she noticed how the whiteness of the dress seemed so much brighter against her pale skin. How her red hair and blue eyes seemed that much more pronounced by the additional paleness wrapped around her body.
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My first memories are of being a slave. Perhaps I was one in a former life, perhaps not. In one of my memories I was bound and stood on a box in front of men. There was smoke, the click of ice in glasses, course laughter and my fear. My fear was also my arousal.
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If time could be recognized, then we would have no need for clocks or calendars. These things are metres set against a background of haze and dream. The truth of time is that we live it. We breathe in moments and release seconds to the atmosphere where they bound and prance, teasing us before disappearing completely. They taunt us with their ephemerity.
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Frankie, the girl who waxed Mistress Vixen so beautifully had no idea of Vixen's profession. She saw a striking, powerful woman who dressed simply and elegantly and assumed that she was some sort of corporate executive. Like a number of similar, if not quite so formidable looking women, who looked after their bodies, Vixen used a lot of the spa's services. Some of them also chose to have a Brazilian wax. There was no reason to think that this quiet, relaxed client was particularly out of the ordinary.
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I didn't know how best to describe my desires as I grew older, at least I never truly acknowledged them from fear of judgment until I met Him.
January. Two weeks ago.
I was rushing to class when I first saw Him. He was chatting with a good friend of mine, dressed in a black shirt and blue jeans.
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You have me tied down to the bed, my limbs stretched and tightly secured with the silk scarves to each of the bedposts. A fifth scarf is wrapped around my head, covering my eyes, completely blocking out all light. The faint scent of jasmine incense is in the air, combined with the smell of hot melting wax.
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He was going to kill me.
Not merely an idle thought, but quite possibly a fact considering what I was about to do. I was treading not only the very distinct line of our abstract relationship this afternoon, but perhaps straddling the damn thing, erasing the permanent marker with the lacy tops of Chinese silk stockings, fraying the edges on the constitution of our very own sexual etiquette.
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She knew she shouldn't be out. It was late, nearly midnight already. The full moon glowed high in the sky, illuminating the path in front of her in the hazy shades of silver and blue~fae light she'd always heard it called. She sighed and moved gracefully along the path. She knew it so well now, traveled it as often as she could, as often as nature allowed.
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I got dressed as provocatively and with the sluttiest make-up that I could manage without looking like a transsexual, slipped on my heels and tottered my way to the interview. They had been so secretive, and I amused myself by twiddling with my cellphone and imagining things they would give me to do.
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She knelt down by the door of the bathroom, completely naked, her hands clasped in her lap, her head bowed. The short copper hair was tussled, but her overall appearance was neat. She couldn't wait to see what he had in store for her today.
He stepped out of the shower, completely naked. He chuckled. "My my, someone doesn't like clothes very much," he noted, very pleased with his slave. She was in position, didn't bother with frilly knick knacks, and was ready to serve him.
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