Anything for your master

You stay on your knees between his legs while he studies the way the red tank top stretches across your breasts.

Noah’s eyes are dark with heat. He reaches down, cups your chin, and tells you to take the maid dress off. Leave the stockings, the heels, the choker, and the new top.

You obey at once.

The latex unlaces easily under your fingers. You peel it down your body, step out of it, and fold it neatly before returning to your knees. Now you wear only the fishnets, the spike heels, the white lace choker, and the tight red tank top that proclaims I like boys AND girls. Nothing covers you from the waist down. The air feels cool against your wet skin.

He frees his cock. You don’t wait for a second order—you lean in and take him into your mouth, warm and eager, the same devoted rhythm you used this morning and last night. One hand stays on his thigh; the other slips between your legs, circling your clit in time with the slow bob of your head. The tank top pulls tight with every movement. The words across your chest feel heavier now, more real.

He lets you work for long minutes, enjoying the wet heat of your mouth. When he finally guides you off with a gentle tug of your hair, your lips are shiny and your breathing is fast.

“Pick the next piece,” he says. “Whatever you think will please me most.”

You reach into the box without hesitation and lift out the silver chain and the nipple clamps. Your voice is soft when you offer them.

“These, Sir. Please.”

He takes them. You arch your back, offering your breasts. He pulls the neckline of the tank top down, exposing you, and sets the clamps in place one after the other. The first sharp bite makes you gasp; the second draws a low moan. The chain hangs between them, swaying with every breath.

He sits back and simply looks at you: on your knees, half-naked, collared, clamped, the red tank top shoved beneath your breasts.

“Show me how much you want to be good for me.”

You lean forward again and take him back into your mouth, sucking with deeper, hungrier strokes. The chain swings gently as you work. Your free hand stays busy between your legs, keeping yourself right on the edge but never tipping over—waiting for permission the way a perfect slave should.

He threads his fingers into your hair and lets you continue. After a while he eases you off, stands, and begins choosing more pieces from the box. The black collar with rhinestone letters spelling public slut buckles over your white lace one. The tiny wet-look skirt replaces any remaining coverage; it is so short the lower curves of your ass show with every movement. He finds a small remote-controlled vibrator you hadn’t noticed before, seats it deep inside you, then pulls a pair of shiny micro-shorts up your legs. They are obscenely tight, pressing the toy firmly against you. The remote disappears into his pocket.

“Turn around. On your knees again.”

You drop into position. He feeds his cock back into your mouth and clicks the remote to a low, steady pulse. The sudden vibration makes your eyes widen and a muffled moan vibrates around his shaft. He increases the speed one notch and watches you struggle to keep sucking while the toy works inside you.

You last as long as he wants, concentrating on his pleasure even as the vibrator frays your own control. When he finally comes you swallow every drop, then stay in place with your mouth open, showing him it’s empty. The toy keeps buzzing. Your thighs shake.

“You don’t come until I say.”

“Yes, Sir,” you whisper.

He leaves the vibrator running on low and sits back on the couch. You remain kneeling between his legs, waiting. Your makeup is smudged. The twin collars sit neatly at your throat. The red tank top and micro-shorts leave almost nothing to the imagination.

His phone buzzes. He reads the message, then holds the screen so you can see it. Rachel—the friendly divorcée two doors down—wants to drop by later to return a casserole dish.

He looks at you carefully.

“Rachel’s coming by this evening. I want you to stay dressed like this when she gets here.”

For a fraction of a second something old and uncertain flickers through your mind. It vanishes almost instantly, smoothed away by the soft, steady pressure of the collars and the clothing. Your shoulders relax. The idea of Rachel seeing you like this—of being friendly to her the way the tank top suggests—settles into you as simply another way to please him.

“Yes, Sir,” you say. “How would you like me to greet her?”

He considers you for a long moment, the remote warm in his hand.

“We’ll decide together. But I want her to see exactly what you look like right now. And I want you to be very, very friendly.”

Your breath catches. The words across your chest suddenly feel like a promise. You nod, cheeks flushed, and wait while he turns the vibrator up another notch.

The afternoon light begins to fade. You stay on your knees, the toy humming quietly inside you, the twin collars heavy and perfect at your throat, already imagining how you will look when Rachel arrives—and how good it will feel to do exactly what your Master wants.

You still think this is only an intense game that has somehow continued longer than expected.

You have no idea the clothing has already decided how the rest of the evening will go.