Disbelief (1)

He noted the tits right away. Gods but he loved tits. He loved touching them softly, stroking the silky skin, loved sucking the nipples until they rose tightly in his mouth. He loved squeezing them until his partner screamed, loved tying them tightly until she moaned. Marks from a crop, from a cane, from his hand–it didn’t matter. Big ones, small ones, fake or real, he loved tits. Once again he stared at the woman across the room. Though it was that pair of breasts that had first caught his eye, there was more. He wove through the crowd. A party at Whip was always a crush. He needed to see more than a generous pair of knockers.

Back against the wall, closer to the woman, yet out of sight, he confirmed his suspicions. He could barely believe his eyes. In fact, if he  hadn’t been wearing a mask, he may well have rubbed them to clear them, thinking that the vision across the room was a mirage. He did shake his head, certain that he was mistaken.  Her height was right, the hair color was right, the shape of her head, the faint curl of her bottom lip. Could it really be Amanda?

She wore a corset that lifted her breasts high, each movement a subtle tease that one or the other might just pop free and reveal a perky nipple. Dear gods, she had a pair of amazing tits, (if it really was Amanda, who would have ever known?, he mused) the tautly rounded orbs lifted with every breath. The fishnet stockings covered legs that he’d never seen, always before hidden under dress slacks, never a skirt. Her  hair sluiced down her back, a long ribbon of red. When she turned to speak to a woman beside her, he could see just how long it was. He’d had no idea there was so much of it! Gone was the tight-assed bun, the proper chignon, the tightly woven braid. His fingers itched to grab that long hank of hair, wrap it around his fist, and…but wait. A sudden thought occurred to him, jarring him to re-evaluate.

She could be spoken for. Although her outfit could have put her as either a Top or a bottom, he innately felt that ‘submissive’ was her role. There were signs, subtle though they were;   no crop, no jewelry, no tall boots or wicked heels. Her makeup, while slutty, wasn’t over the top.  She didn’t appear to be looking for anyone, only chatting with the woman who stood beside her. At her ease, as if she’d been here–or some other BDSM club–before. He edged closer.

Thankfully, there was no collar around her pale-skinned throat. Noticing  that made his wicked, black heart beat just a bit faster. Did he dare? She might know him, might suss out his identity. But perhaps if she was involved in play, blindfolded, perhaps then he could keep his identity secret. It was time to search out Duncan, to have him liaise for him, and share any information discovered. His fingers twitched, thinking about touching her. His cock was tingling, half-hard. He wanted–needed- to know everything Dunc could find out-was she alone? Would she play? Was she looking for a Dom? Was she looking for a woman? Gods, he hoped not!  With one last look at her, lost in deep conversation, he turned away to find Duncan.

Perhaps in a short while, he’d be busy with a new submissive. Who also happened to be his boss.

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