Dec 022007
 

At long last here’s the next nibble to the story started on my website(http://pleasemistresskatherine.com/story.htm). I’ll be leaving that bit up there and posting the rest of the story, as I work through it, on this blog. Again, this is a work in progress, so it’s still a bit rough.

But hey, its free porn, so quite your bitchin.

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I hate the strange Seattle behavior of walking around in the rain without an umbrella. Like people are trying to look so outdoorsy that they don’t care if they get wet or not. That’s fine if they’re tromping through the Hoh Rainforest. But in an urban environment it just makes them look at best forgetful, at worst stupid. How long do you have to live in this town before you recognize what is likely to become a rainy day? Personally I own 5 bumbershoots. I view color coordination as a daily responsibility and a simple way we can all make the world that much more attractive.

On this rainy Tuesday I’m sporting my leopard print umbrella. It goes well with the black PVC raincoat that ends half way down my ass and is cinched in tight at my waist, the slim black skirt and the knee-high leather platform boots. Now all that black might not seem to require kitty print. But today, like many others, I’m coordinating with my hair. My mane, and that is the best name for it, falls down to the middle of my back, it is long, thick, and naturally curly. I have it cut in subtle layers so that it combines soft waves with a few determined ringlets. The color is a bright auburn and even the scant sun on an overcast fall day will bring out the ruby and copper highlights. My skin is pale, more the result of an Irish heritage than my city of residence. My eyes are a dark blue that travels through hues of green to grey depending on my mood. And my features speak of something more exotic than the misty isle. High cheek bones, strong nose, full lips, wide clear brow. I’ve been told that I have the features of a lioness and as the male of the species is just a figurehead, not the daily killing machine that the females are, I took the compliment.

Today I wish to emphasis my cat like nature, hence the umbrella. I feel I’m being generous to my prey, so blatantly advertising the potential danger. No sheep’s clothing here. But my sweet little boyscout is either ignorant as to what these spots might mean or he’s too heated up by my test on the bus to make the smart choice. I don’t even need to turn around. I’m fairly sure I’d played my cards right, especially with that last comment. I just wasn’t sure he’d be able to shake off his stunned stupor in time to make the door. I have my umbrella open and I use it to block myself mostly from his view. I pause at the corner near the bus stop to grab a newspaper. I turn to open the machine and give him a glimpse but refuse the temptation to look his way. I was a girlscout myself, a very long time ago, and one of the many useful skills I learned was how to mark a trail. The polite thing to do if you want someone to follow you.

But it’s no fun if it’s too easy. So with almost no notice at all I step into the street. It’s a four way intersection, so I have the right of way, and I make sure that the approaching traffic has plenty of time to stop. One of the other advantages of having an umbrella, or some other blunt object, on hand. Sometimes a pedestrian needs to emphasis her rights. Everyone is trying to get home and the drivers are cranky at being made to stop but they have to let me pass. My boyscout however, a few paces back, they won’t wait for. A few more cars will insist on forcing their way through the invisible crosswalk. And he doesn’t have a weapon to protect himself from moisture or mean motorists. So I’m quite surprised at the sudden blaring of horns and shouted curses behind me and I unintentionally look back. Luckily he’s so busy avoiding vehicular homicide that he doesn’t catch me.

Most people would take such impulsive behavior, like jumping into traffic, as a character flaw. I’m obviously not most people. I see his willingness to take a risk, when properly motivated, as yet another sign that I’m very right about what is lurking under that clean cut exterior. And though I can’t risk a lengthy look I like the expression on his face. I’d seen him sweet, with the little old lady on the bus and flustered when he saw me for the first time. I like seeing him angry, yelling back at the driver that had almost run him down. There is a difference between a good submissive and a push-over. Once upon a time I might not have understood that but there is no mistaking it, and no compromising on it, now. Why would I want someone that anyone could push around? Submission is not weakness. It is having the strength to selectively hand your power over to another. And my boyscout will need to be very strong indeed to last long in my favor.

My apartment is only a few blocks down and we have no more dangerous intersections to traverse. I continue to walk with out looking back. Like any other woman on her way home from work. But I don’t walk too fast and I sway my hips a bit more than is necessary to carry me forward down the street. I keep my umbrella raised over my head so that he can watch my hair matching the back and forth motion of my ass.

I need to make the moment as enchanting as possible because I know that this is when he will start to have doubts. He’s a good boy. And good boys don’t stalk women down lonely residential streets. Of course, good girls don’t molest good boys on public transportation which muddies the water considerably. His rational mind will be battling with his more primal instincts. Everything he’s been taught and trained to know about male and female interaction will try to make sense of what happened on the bus.

But once again I’ve timed things perfectly. Before fear of potential humiliation or arrest takes over, we reach my apartment building. I stop and hear, as well as feel, him stop a few paces behind me. I turn slowly letting the umbrella fall back, resting the handle on my shoulder. I know the effect is attractive, all that hair haloed by the amber and black animal print. Maybe his brain belatedly picks up on the implied threat of those markings. He stands there stiffly, frozen, like a deer that sees a sudden movement in the tall grass. I want to smile but only allow myself a bit of a devilish glimmer in my eye while I hold his gaze. He actually gulps and then I do allow myself a smile. I take a single step forward and ask him “What do you want?”

I don’t inflect my question the way a woman typically would when confronting a strange man she knows to be following her. But then I wouldn’t have taken a step closer to him either. And I wouldn’t be smiling. It’s a sincere question, that might appear casual in its simplicity, but I’m asking something very important.

I can see a million thoughts cross his face. Somewhere in there is the answer I want to hear. But I really don’t expect him to say it out loud. He probably doesn’t even know the words for it. No, today is just about planting the seed. A very healthy, genetically enhanced seed that has already started to spread vine like tendrils inside his fertile young mind. But right now he is confused, and he goes for the less threatening question of “Why are you following me?” that I hadn’t asked.

“You, um” he stutters “On the bus…I thought…”

I usually like making men feel awkward but I only let him dangle for a minute before taking another couple of steps toward him and cutting off his stammering “I didn’t ask you why you followed me. I asked you what you want.” I take the last step forward closing the distance between us, I even lean in a bit to invade his personal space. Without breaking eye contact I purr ” I think we both know why you are here. You liked the feeling of my hands on your hips while I stood behind you.” I lean in even closer. A breath would make us touch. Good thing he’s not breathing “And you especially liked it when I pressed my lovely hip…” I stoke my hand down said curve for emphasis “hard up against your ass. Didn’t you?” The last bit of air in his lungs whispers out in a barely audible “Yes.”

“So I ask you again. What do you want?”

He answers semi-honestly “I…I don’t know.” But how could he, my innocent little boyscout. It’s probably all a whirling mass of images in his overloaded, blood deprived, mind. The fact that he’s followed me, placed himself of his own free will on the path to finding out is enough for now.

I pull a sleek and simple business card out of my hip pocket. Black and glossy with a single line of text, a website address. This I place against his lips. I allow my voice to become more officious. This is the important part and involves one of the few rules I play by. Informed consent. “You should know what you are getting yourself into. This is my professional site but my interests in you are not professional. There’s contact information on the the last page but don’t use it. If you want to see me again you will be here tomorrow night at 6 o’clock. If you aren’t here at exactly 6 o’clock you’ll have today’s adventure but you will never have anything more.” And with that I slide the card between his lips, turn on my heel and walk up the stairs to my front door. But just before I slip inside I look back over my shoulder at him, still standing there with my card in his mouth. I flash him a smile full of dark promises and say “I’ll see you tomorrow, boyscout.”

And we both know I will.

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Not too pornographic I know, but every story needs some transitions. The next bit is already written and is much juicier I promise. If you ever need to find this story on my Live Journal, in case you miss something or want to re-read a past entry, just search under “Slut” which is the working title of this piece or “story” which is the keyword for all my fiction on this blog.

Feedback is always welcome.

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