Previously from Sex Slave Story: How I Became My Son’s Indentured Sex Slave (Part I)
Then with a gentle squeeze, and a kiss to my temple, he told me not to worry. My safety would be assured, him trying to placate my fears. Was he serious? All I had was fears. After all, it wasn’t like I had agreed to be indentured in my own sex slave story every day.
What had I gotten myself into??
My Indentured Sex Slave Story continues…
The next day, right on schedule, a package was delivered. With nervous hands, I opened the rather large box. Honestly, what was inside wasn’t all that bad. There were two complete outfits. One was black, complete with a black lace demi bra with matching panties. At least, I thought, they were panties. The scrap of material was microscopic and didn’t really cover anything. There was a garter belt to complete the lingerie set and black thigh highs with the seams running up the back.
The black dress was form fitting, hugging and accentuated all my curves in all the right places. Ad a pair of fuck-me heels and wha-la – sexy Hostess-for-the-Mostest: AKA Sex Slave. The second outfit was done in red, and even more daring – straps kept the deep plunging neckline from exposing my full breasts and hard nipples (at least not too much), and the short skirt was a breezy thing that flipped effortlessly with every sway of my hips.
At least my sex slave story came with some confidence-building outfits.
I tried them both on, and I had to admit – they made me feel sexy and alive and desirable. Not something a Mom gets to feel in her day-to-day life of taking care of everyone else. And I looked damn good in them as well, if I do say so myself.
But then the reality of what was going to happen the next night hit me like a ton of bricks. I started hyperventilating as my mind went to all sorts of horrific places. God, when I went looking for a little excitement to fill my empty hours, this was not what I had bargained for.
The next day I got myself ready, dressing in the little black number that was delivered the previous day. The car picked me up promptly at 7, and I was ushered into the back seat. The drive was short – maybe 15 minutes at most. The place was secluded, set back from the main road, nestled in a grove of trees, obscuring the mansion-like house from prying eyes.
When I entered the rather large home I was, quite honestly, scared shitless. My body was vibrating with the combination of that fear plus the adrenaline that was being pumped into my bloodstream in mass quantities. But this crowd was, for the most part, well mannered.
In my sex slave story of mine, my pulse started to slow infinitesimally with their small kindness
They let me get used to all of them, buzzing about me like bees to honey. The attention I was getting was doing wonders for my ego. Nothing lewd (at first); the flattery was suggestive but not over the top. And I was never without a drink – someone always offering to freshen my glass.
But then things got revved up a bit. Hands were wandering, squeezing. Lips were caressing my shoulder, my neck, their sweet kisses making their way up to my greedy lips. Then I was brought back into the back bedroom, where I was introduced to my “duties” as a hostess.
I was scared, more than a bit tipsy, and much to my astonishment, my body was betraying me, growing more and more aroused with the attention I was getting in my sex slave story. From what I can remember, it was all very vanilla at first. Then one hard body became two. And then three.
And then vanilla had left the building.
My Indentured Sex Slave Story will be continued…
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