Will I tell her you are standing so awkwardly because there’s a little flared pink plug shoved between your cheeks? A plug I made you insert by going into the bathroom, sucking it first, and then shoving it between your cheeks and into your tight asshole? Maybe we can keep that our little secret.
Good morning my corporate slut,
Shopping always makes me feel better.
Oh, don’t get worried. I’m not thinking about blindfolding you and taking you to a party and making you suck dick for cash so I can go on a shopping spree with my girlfriends this weekend (although, the thought did cross my mind).
I am thinking about the kind of shopping that actually creams my panties during the process. The kind of shopping that makes me burn with desire as you crumble in humiliation, your poor ego crushed, your shield deflated, your cock shriveled.
Or is that rock hard?
It’s both, of course. The kind of “treatment” that both mortifies and arouses you. It creates that distinct disgusts and turns you on at the same time. You cannot understand how you can be so humiliated and so turned on at the exact same moment. I do. I get it all. I get it because it is what I lust for. It’s what I need.
It’s a bonafide ache.
I want to see you feel those emotions at the same time. Standing there in a lingerie store, for example, as a grown and confident man. And then stripped down to a humiliated, groveling little bitch for a woman – a salesgirl- you find undeniably hot. Stunning. So beautiful, and yet she regards you as pathetic.
Maybe even a loser. Well, certainly odd. I mean, why else would you be standing there in the dressing room before her wearing tight pink satin panties and a matching satin bra?
Will she be able to hold back her laughter, or will she try to keep a straight face while measuring your bust?
Will I tell her that you are wearing a matching pink butt plug, and your hole twitches with excitement around it whenever her fingers touch your skin?
I have already called ahead. It’s the most expensive boutique lingerie store in downtown Los Angeles. We even have an appointment. I told her you are a pathetic loser of a corporate bitch that lost a bet and I am bringing you down to get fitted into a black velvet corset, black thigh highs, black panties. I told her I want to spend no less than one thousand dollars.
I could hear the cash registers go off in her mind. Commission, after all. Oh, I looked her up online – she’s a former model. Lingerie model. Perfect body, long legs. She was laughing when I explained that you were going from top corporate dog to lowly feminine bitch.
Now, what is REALLY going to be arousing is when she sees you strip out of your corporate suit and tie and you are already in pink. Pretty, pretty satin pink. Oh, the bulge. Your undeniable bulge. That little pink bow at the front of your panties will be exploding. How humiliating for you.
Will I tell her you are standing so awkwardly because there’s a little flared pink plug shoved between your cheeks? A plug I made you insert by going into the bathroom, sucking it first, and then shoving it between your cheeks and into your tight asshole? Maybe we can keep that our little secret.
I expect that when we walk into the gorgeous lingerie store she will already have the private dressing room just stuffed full of corsets, thigh highs, and panties for you to try on. Of course, I am going to want her opinion. And for a thousand dollars of shopping, I should get it.
I am also going to have her pick out a low-cut, sexy bathing suit for you. A very feminine one. With some breast forms to fill it out. You know those are so very, very tight. How ever are we going to tuck and hide that sad, useless meat between your legs? I bet she has some ideas.
When she sees how masculine you are, and how your facial hair makes you look ridiculous, she is going to try to stifle a laugh. When she sees you standing there in your pink satin she is going to be – well, entertained. I am going to let her know she is more than welcome to bring all the ladies from the shop to come in and give their opinions as well. After all, we want this new lingerie to be perfect.
Meanwhile, I will be taking it all in as I ache. Ache and desire to just step into the dressing room next door and say I am trying something on, but really I am just pleasuring myself. Listening to your labored breathing as she measures you, and talks to you in a hushed tone. Maybe with me out of the room, she even tries to reassure you or put you at ease.
Or maybe she becomes absolutely cruel and degrading and hisses, “What kind of a man are you, anyway? How pathetic.” Maybe she will find her inner sadist as I listen in, my fingers exploring my clit, my own panties just soaking from the experience of being in the store with you as you want to crawl away and disappear.
Speaking of crawling, that will be the final test. I will tell her that I always know if the lingerie is right for you by seeing you crawl in it. On all fours, slowly, catlike and deliberate, working your way across the hall in the dressing room. And you would be hoping, hoping so desperately that another woman, innocently shopping, does not come around the corner to see Mr. corporate guy crawling in a corset and thigh-high stockings.
I will keep making you go back and forth. Back and forth. Pointing out the small of your back to the beautiful sales girl, the way you know how to move your ass. Oh, eventually someone will stroll by.
It’s inevitable.
Be ready for shopping, and don’t forget your pink plug.
Affectionately,
Mistress Akasha
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