by Bobwhite
Author's note: This is my first story that works like this...so enjoy! Special thanks go to all the nice folks at the forum for the valuable input I got.
It started innocently enough, three months ago. In fact, I'm surprised it got started at all. I'm usually gone by 10:00 A.M.
It was the second Monday of the month. Only a few months ago, that particular day of the month held very little meaning to me. I had spent the two previous weeks burning away some of my vacation time at work; it was time I'd lose at the end of the year anyway because my job doesn't let me save vacation days year after year. The high pay, though, was reason enough for me to stick around, even if it killed any possibility of doing what my mother won't let me forget I have to do: settle down. Get a man. Have a bunch of kids. Just like she did. It didn't matter how many times I told her I wasn't ready for a husband yet, and I couldn't tell her how I fulfilled any urges I had. She was my mom, after all.
The doorbell rang, so I went to my living room and looked through the window next to my front door, seeing the profile of a woman there. Comparing our bodies, I felt an initial twang of jealousy at her breasts—on her moderately tall frame, they stuck out enough to be noticed through her otherwise non-descript uniform shirt. She must have been about 5 foot 10 inches, or so; with thick, black, curly hair that was seemingly flowing down her back. She turned a bit, facing directly behind me, giving me a glimpse of her figure. I'm easily much more slim that she is, and I'm still very proud of my athletic figure, small breasts and all. But I'd love to have that shape. A gentle hourglass slope graced her silhouette from this angle, and I only wished (for reasons I didn't know) that she was wearing something besides a uniform.
After what seemed like several minutes of gazing at her (it was actually only a few seconds, but I was recovering from an interesting weekend, after all, and may have been a bit dazed), I went to the door and opened it. "Hi. Can I help you with something, Miss..." I froze. Her face was glowing—or, at least, it almost was. She had beautiful brown eyes, and dark skin; her complexion became more exotic as I drank it in that first time. It was almost too natural to look like a tan. Maybe she was part Indian; it's impossible to tell even now. But her eyes were round.
Her eyes... her big, round eyes. Not bugging, not straining to be open wide, just round; a pond of pure ivory with a light brown island in the middle. The island was probably nothing more than a volcano—I could see the craters of her pupils, somewhat shrunk from the brightness of the day. Her perfume blew into the door, and I took a deep breath. It smelled vaguely of flowers, and filled my nostrils, mouth, and lungs with a slight heat. After a single deep breath, which I took while waiting for her to tell me who she was and why she was looking at me with those eyes, I noticed I was looking into them again, waiting for an answer. I wonder how long I waited.
"Hi. I'm Heather," she chimed, almost musically. "Can I get inside and check your meter?" That question was heard in the front of my brain, but in the heart of my mind—or was it the back?—all I could do was look at her eyes. It now was clear that there was more than one shade of brown at play here; there was clearly a dark, rich walnut color next to the pupil that faded to a light brown next to the cornea. I actually looked for the line defining the boundary between black pupil and walnut iris for longer than I can remember. She was still talking, and my head almost felt like it nodded forward. It didn't, of course. I was wide awake.
"Excuse me?" I mumbled absently, coming to myself with a shudder. Breathing her floral perfume and drawing my gaze past her cute nose, moderately full lips, soft chin, that part of the neck where the shoulder meets the neck, and down her shirt, I felt a little strange. The first few buttons were open—no surprise, with the hot weather. Cleavage! The last meter lady who I'd seen working around here always wore a T-shirt under her uniform. I dragged my eyes once again over her form—this time traversing her bust—till I saw her shirt's embroidered logo near her left shoulder: Kane Water & Sewer. It took longer than perhaps it should have to figure out that this lovely (had I just thought that? Lovely?) woman worked for my city's water company. I'd seen her around a couple of times in the past couple of weeks painting lines on the ground and sidewalks that marked water line locations. They're always doing some work to the street. It seemed like we had talked a few times... funny how I didn't remember the conversations so well at the moment.
"I said," flowed a voice that can only be described as smooth as silk, "I need to check your water meter. I'm having trouble reading it from outside. It's probably in your basement. I just need to install this..." she said, holding up what looked like a small, flat metal box with a hole on either end, "...and I'll be out of your hair. It'll only take a couple of minutes, really."
"What is that?" I said, drawn back to her eyes. I stood back to let her in, never looking away from them.
"It's a pressure monitor. We've been having trouble with the water pressure on this main, and this will record the pressure hour-to-hour. Don't worry, it won't affect your plumbing." As she said that last part, she used a reassuring tone that could have convinced me to do just about anything. She also put her hand on my shoulder—high on my shoulder, touching the nape of my neck. Her hand seemed a bit warm, and it smelled of that perfume that was invading my very being. I think I even blushed. She removed her hand and I showed her to the basement, watching her form as she attached the device.
The spot where she touched me was still warm, I noticed as soon as I could pry my gaze from her shapely ass. I wondered why, and rubbed the spot with my right hand. Instead of pain, it was mildly relaxing and even a little pleasurable; so I sat there rubbing the oily sweat from her hand around the back of my neck. Wherever I rubbed with that hand warmed up just like the spot on my neck had. Sadly, within 10 minutes, she was done. She had me taste the water while she watched, to prove to me that it would taste fine. It did, and the coolness of the water somehow made my neck and hands warm up even more. After that, I showed her to the door.
At my doorway, though, she stopped and turned around, blazing into me with her eyes. My neck grew hotter, and started to tingle. She smiled and, with her hand, brushed a curl of curly, blonde hair that had fallen onto the front of my face. Her skin grazed mine as she did so, starting at my left cheek and dragging over to my right temple. It had lit a fire across my skin, and I followed her hand with my face until she drew her hand away. That made her smile a bit more, I think. I searched for something to say—was I actually getting butterflies talking to my water company worker, a woman I'd never met?—and she playfully put her finger on my lips to shush me, making them tremble. "I'll be back on the first Monday next month. Make sure you're home around this time that day so I can take the recorder back to the shop. Bye!" And she was gone.
I stepped back inside and licked my lips, actually tasting the sweat from her hands. I guess the air conditioner had really cooled the place off because my nipples suddenly brought themselves to my attention—I had a pretty bad nipple erection going on! In the privacy of my house, I reached up to my T-shirt and pinched my nipples to settle them down. I hadn't been wearing a bra and the sensation took me by surprise. I felt the dampness inside my panties with my right hand and slid it inside... an audible "ooooooooh" escaped at the sensation of my strangely warm hand heating up my furnace below. I went back to my bedroom to enjoy the next hour of my day off in private. "I'll never tell anyone about this," I told myself as I went back to bed, one hand already at my crotch and the other under my shirt.
The next month, she came back. I had almost forgotten our last meeting, and I flushed when I saw her through the window—the images of what I did when she left, and who I thought about while doing it, sprang into my mind. I'd never even looked at a woman that way before, but that day, I'd done a lot more than look—at least, in my mind. But, my senses came back in time for me to answer the door.
"Hi, it's me!", she said, as if greeting a longtime friend. "I'm here for the pressure recorder, and to give you this survey. Yeah, I know it's dumb, but we're required by state regulations to ask you seven questions after a service call of this kind." She was holding a clipboard and a toolbox. I showed her to the basement again, trying to breathe in as much of her scent as I could. I would have to ask her where I could get some. As she was about to begin working, she turned around (making her breasts jiggle), leaned towards me as if about to reveal a secret (and filling my lungs with more perfume), and whispered, "You know, if you'd like, I can show you how to check your main shut-off valve. It's a lifesaver in an emergency if your pipes ever fail." I silently agreed, nodding my head up and down in time with her head.
While I gazed into her pupils, looking for any shades of color I could discover that I hadn't already memorized and dreamed about for a month, she put her palm to my left cheek. My hand leaned into it, smelling her even more than before. This time, I felt my nipples harden and my panties dampen instantly. For a woman! I wanted to shake my head and clear my thoughts. I wanted to get this woman out of my brain's wild imagination—or, at least, stop the intrusion of that increasingly arousing imagination into my current thought stream.
The next thing I knew, I was guiding her to my shut-off valve, placed (inconveniently) on a pipe a few feet above our heads in the basement. It was near the hot water heater, so Heather decided that I should support her while she showed me how to use the valve—she didn't want to end up falling face-first into the water heater, after all. So, she got on the top step of the stepladder, and I came up to her, supporting her by holding onto the belt loops of her pants. She really wasn't too high up, but I felt her wobble a little. I looked up, through the underside of her concealed chest, and saw how to turn the valve. "Righty, tighty; lefty, loosey," she said, moving the handle rhythmically back and forth. "Easy. Here, help me down, I've got to get back to the shop. Luckily, you're the last house on my route."
She stepped down, and stumbled—thank God I was holding on to her pants!—and she leaned awkwardly into me, her breasts crushing either side of my face, my nose finding its way into her cleavage. And the smell of the perfume there simply was too strong. Beautiful, sweet, seductive, and strong. I breathed it in several times, and she just held me there. She stepped down, and looked back into my eyes. The perfume was quickly making every part of my body tingle; everywhere she had touched me today—my face, my neck, my arms, my hands, and around my back—was on fire with a need, a need to be touched again, to be stroked, to be rubbed by whatever sweet oil she was scenting her wonderful body with. She literally had to lift my chin with her hand so I could look back into her eyes. "I think you need to lie down. Can I help you to your room?"
My mind swam. Her... in my room... I wanted to lie down, all right, but I couldn't do it with her helping me. I didn't like the way I felt about her; I'd never wanted to make love to a woman before... but that's all I wanted, and I was afraid of what I might try with this innocent public worker if I got her to my room. I examined her eyes again, and it was like looking up through a volcano's crater from inside. The chamber in which I stood was too dark for light to escape. Then, I saw myself through the pupils, eyes half open, lying on my bed, naked, her hands roaming my body, making every part touched yearn—no, burn—for more contact. The contact of her palms on my skin anywhere was like a tongue lazily roaming my most private parts. I was standing at the bottom of a hollow brown mountain of stone, staring up into the infinity above the crater, seeing her and myself in one image.
Shaking my head, I became aware that we were in my bedroom, and I was indeed naked. My body was on fire with a lust I've never felt, and I was lying down, unable to touch myself—making things worse, I just knew that any tactile contact on my skin would quench my flesh's thirst. She held out her hand, motioning for me to sit up. I did, and knowing somehow what to do, unbuttoned her shirt. She had been sweating, and the shirt was wet with it. But the sweat seemed impregnated with her scent, and when I pressed my face to her bust so I could reach around to take off her bra, the liquid perfume (it was kind of oily, actually) smeared all over my face, and when the bra hit the floor, I began to lick her. I licked her breasts, between her breasts, and then under them. The sweat and scent was intoxicating, and I was drunk on my lust for her. I took alternating nipples into my mouth while I unbuttoned her pants and slid them and her panties off. When she was standing naked, I got on my knees slowly, bathing her torso with my tongue, licking every stray smudge of that scented oil as I went. When I got to her navel, she slowly backed around and sat on the edge of my bed, lying back.
I didn't need to be told what to do. Still unable to touch myself, and the oil on my skin making me feel like my whole body was a pussy being licked luxuriously by a hundred tongues nobody could see and only I could feel, I slid my tongue, looking into her eyes the whole time, down her lower abdomen. She kept her head propped up as my tongue passed her navel, slid down to her waste, skimmed over her trimmed (and beautiful-smelling) pubic hair, flicking down quickly over her clit—making her moan and fall back—before finally plunging into her honeypot. And that's the only word for her: honey. She tasted like honey, and I could not get enough. Up and down my tongue slid, down below her vagina and to either side (eventually). At a silent prompting I don't even remember, I brought my hands up and spread her open, exposing the inside of her sex to my eyes for the first time. Flicking my tongue around her inner labia, I finally worked the tip of it into her as far as I could get it. I used my head to fuck her with my tongue, and she ground into my wet face.
I couldn't get enough of her smell or taste, but at another prompting I don't recall, I slid my open mouth over her clit and sucked slightly while I inserted my middle and index fingers into her. My fingers were twisted together slightly, and I rotated my wrist as much as I could while I pistonned my digits in and out of her. Her hips began to buck up and down in time with my hand, and a third finger joined in when I realized just how important her pleasure was to me. I just knew she wanted me to fill her in any way I could. I only wish I could touch every part of her skin at one time with my body while I did this! Her contact—just touching her skin—was all I needed, all I desired. I sucked hard on her clit and released the small vacuum in my mouth in perfect rhythm with my three violating fingers. After about ten minutes (by the clock that I could just barely see—it seemed to me like a blissful eternity!), her hips began to shake violently and she let out a wild scream. At least, that's the first scream that I realized I had heard; now that I look back and have pieced together some of what happened, I realize that she had been screaming quite a bit.
She was spent, but I was still dripping with desire. I was finally able to touch myself, but my hands—while satisfying my flesh's hunger somewhat—crept to my pussy, and I openly stood and played with myself, unable to orgasm, while she got dressed. She walked to my front door, and I followed, openly masturbating. I actually got to my front porch, naked for anyone to see, when she pointed back to the house—I knew I had to stay. I was about to burst into tears, the only reason for my being was walking away! I turned to go inside, and she came from behind me. She wrapped her arms around my stomach, and slowly brought her hands up to my breasts. As they neared my nipples, my knees buckled, and my head flew back. Into my right ear, she whispered two words that defined me from that moment on.
As she tweaked my nipples hard, and before I could formulate the scream that accompanied my first public orgasm (well, the first I'd had on my front proch), she gave me my identity. I had worked my whole life at too many time-consuming, life-crushing jobs, making sacrifices, hoping to find something that I could use to justify my existence—and here, before my orgasm was even transmitted from my brain to my body's muscles, before I thrashed out in utter rapture that I had never known before, she was telling me what to be.
"Slave." My orgasm racked my body simultaneously with that word. While I was on my hands and knees, my bottom and legs actually outside my door as I tried to crawl back in, she slid a hand down my backside and entered my folds with what felt like two or three fingers. My whole body tensed up when she summed up our relationship and my life with the second most important word in my new vocabulary: "Mine." I came again, less violently, and when I had crawled in and kicked the door shut, it hit me. I was hers, mind, body, and soul. I lived for her. I remember that immediately formed a plan to change my work schedule to be available more often to my Goddess.
Back at the Kane Water & Sewer Authority shop, Heather walked gracefully past the men and women who worked there. They were all hers, in one way or another. Joe, in fact, was a man worth her attention, as he had invented the delivery system that she had installed in her new slave's house. It contained a concentrated dose of a protein Heather had developed in grad school—a protein that, when combined with a different protein she had also developed (and learned to dissolve in an oil-based perfume lotion), would render every inch of exposed skin an erogenous playground. By drinking the (diluted) compliment to her perfume for a month, she now knew that anyone could be hers. As thanks to Joe, she brought him to her office—the supervisor's office, which she occupied despite Joe's position as the boss.
At a single glance into her vortex-like eyes, Joe became instantly hard. When she kissed his cheek, he began to disrobe. "Maybe," Heather mused as she ran a finger from his chest to his navel, "maybe I'll let you remember this. Maybe, because you've been such a smart boy," she further teased as she lightly flicked the head of his cock with her finger, "just maybe you'll get to cum this time." If Joe could have cracked a smile as his supine body was mounted by his hungry Mistress, he probably would have cried as well, with the joy of getting to remember experiencing the end-all, be-all of his existence: physical contact with a deity.
That's the dream of anyone in whom Heather takes an interest.
© 2004, bobwhite, emc.bobwhite@gmail.com. All rights reserved.