How I Became An Older Woman’s Slave

Posted on Posted in Stories

You ask me how I became the sex slave of a much older woman? Honestly, I think you’re asking the wrong question, if you don’t mind me saying? What you should be asking me is how it took so long.

Because some things are more of an inevitability than a random occurrence. Like water flowing downhill or a meteorite falling to earth, the path that I found myself walking during that endless, warm summer was one that had only one destination, only one outcome. I knew it as soon as I started down that road, and I wanted nothing more than to get there.

Why it began is less important than how it began, perhaps. Some half-forgotten crisis, a youthful tragedy, a doomed romance-gone-bad with a faceless boy who played so little role in this story as to allow him to remain nameless. But the hurt of that clichéd heartbreak was very real to a nineteen year old girl, the pain almost tangible.

Enter my savior, my eventual goddess, the woman that I would come to worship and serve in equal measure. An older woman, a half-acquaintance, friend of the family and eternal subject of town gossip: Ms. Rebecca Sharp.

Ms. Sharp lived alone in the big house down the block. A writer by trade, but what she wrote, no-one knew. She was glamorous and self-assured, impeccably attired and quick witted, charming to the men of the neighborhood, disconcerting to the middle-aged women who accompanied them.

She was also there when I needed her, finding me sobbing on the street on the day of The Crisis and inviting me into her home. She knew just what to say, just what to do, just how much sympathy to offer and wisdom to suggest. She doted on me, telling me what I needed to hear, and more besides…

“He was never right for you,” she’d say, “not if he could do that.”

I’d nod, knowing she was right, but not daring to let go of the exquisite comfort of pain. My pain defined me, or so I thought, my heartbreak was the chalk outline of my suffering.

So, she held me, hugging me close to her chest, touching her warm hand to my leg, offering me silence when everyone else kept talking in meaningless platitudes and dismissive impatience.

Inevitably then, through that intimate closeness, my pain gradually became replaced by something else. Something new. Something scary. I began to crave her touch, that sense of mothering closeness, that feeling of my skin on hers. I became a junkie for the perfumed aroma of her clothes, the soft texture of her nylon stockings against my leg, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she held me close, her whispered words.

I began to make excuses to visit her, prolonging the outward appearance of agony long after the memory of why I was hurting in the first place had faded. I offered to do yard work for her, to clean her house, to iron her clothes. Anything to be close to the older woman who beguiled me so. I never stopped to think how wrong it was, how inappropriate. I never stopped to think what my mom would say or the chuntering chorus of the town’s moral choir. I just had to be there.

And then, one day, everything changed.

She was in her study. It was a gloriously brilliant August afternoon, I remember that much. I found her there, at her desk, typing on the laptop computer as she did most days. I’d never asked her what she wrote before, it hadn’t seemed relevant. But now the detail seemed curiously important in the complex tapestry of my nascent love.

“What are you writing, Ms. Sharp?” I asked, tiptoeing around beside her.

She turned to me and regarded me with that cool self-assurance that thrilled and terrified me in equal measure.

“I’m writing a story about an older woman.”

“Oh,” I said, wanting to know more, wanting to know everything. “Like a romance?”

“Steamier than that,” she purred, turning her chair to face me. “It’s a sex story.”

I sighed and chewed on my lower lip. “A s-sex story?”

“Yes. In this story, an older woman becomes friends with a younger girl, outwardly offering to help the younger girl through a painful break-up.”

She paused and leaned her head to the side, studying my reaction.

I felt a sudden dizzying wave washing over me, as if the ground was coming up to meet me. “Really?” I managed to say.

“Yes. But the older woman has other ideas. She secretly lusts after the younger girl, she wants the younger girl for her own, she wants to possess her.”

“P-possess her?” I heard myself say, but my mind felt as if was a long way away.

Ms. Sharp pushed herself up from her seat and stepped over to where I was standing. Without warning, she curved her slender fingers around my cheek.

“Yes. The older woman wants to own the younger girl. She wants to dominate her sexually. To have her do things that she knows to be wrong, but she can’t resist. And the younger girl lets her, because the younger girl is blinded by infatuation.”

“Wh-what happens to them?”

Ms. Sharp took a step forward and pushed me back against the wall, pinning me there with her body, placing her bare arm to the left of my head. I could feel the warmth of her, the swell of her full breasts against mine. I felt tiny and insignificant, powerless and mesmerized.

“They begin a torrid affair, a secret relationship of sexual asymmetry. The girl becomes the woman’s live-in lover, her servant… her slave.”

“S-slave…” I repeated, my eyes locked on Ms. Sharp’s eyes. My heart was hammering, my skin felt like hot lava.

“Yes. Because, sometimes, women can be slaves to other women. They can exist for the sole reason of bringing their mistresses pleasure, they can live for their approval, and crave the sweet sting of their punishment.”

“Yes,” I breathed, understanding what she was saying though I’d never heard the words before, had never thought those thoughts.

Ms. Sharp trailed a single long finger down the side of my face and I closed my eyes, breathing deeply.

“In a moment, honey, I’m going to go and sit on the sofa, right over there.” She glanced to the side. “And you’re going to take your clothes off. Slowly, I want to enjoy watching you.”

“Yes, Ms. Sharp,” I breathed. How could I not?

“Then, when you’re perfectly naked, you’re going to come to me and kneel down on the floor. And as you’re kneeling there, naked as the day you were born, you’re going to look up at me and you’re going to ask me a question. It will be a question that you will ask me many times in the future, a question that you will love to ask me, a question that will define your existence from now on.”

Her face was inches from mine as she spoke the words, as she delivered the soliloquy that would become the template for my new life. I could feel her breath on my lips, I could smell the intoxicating aroma of her perfume. I relished the way her warmth scalded me and made my desire pulse like a drumbeat between my legs.

“A-a question?”

“Yes, honey,” she purred, playfully brushing her lips over mine and making my whole body sing out with demands that I knew I must not voice. “You will ask me, simply, ‘how may I serve you, Mistress?’ and then you will wait for me to tell you. Do you understand?”

I closed my eyes and tried to catch my breath, tried to calm the galloping stampede of my heart, tried to harness the fireball that burned in my sex. “Of course I understand,” I wanted to shout, “of course I’ll do that!”

Because my fate was sealed the moment I first felt her touch or heard her melodic voice, the moment I first craved her presence. And, as I reached the end of my path and embraced my sordid fate, there was only one thing left to say.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good girl,” she purred, and took a step back.

A rush of warm satisfaction filled my body, provoked into life by that singular validation. I watched her move, mesmerized by her, following her as she stepped over to the sofa, marvelling at the fluidity of her motion. She turned and sat down, seeming to flicker from position to position without the wasteful need for interstitial steps. One moment she was standing, the next she was sitting, her long legs crossed, hands cradled around the black-nylon clad curve of her knee. She peered at me with wide green eyes and licked her lips. I’d never been looked at like that before, I’d never felt so wanted, so desired. Her expression alone might have sent me running for the hills, had I not fallen under her spell.

But, with tiny steps, I moved forward, dizzy and unsure of myself, knowing only the destination I needed to get to and nothing of what I would do to get there.

“Take off your clothes,” purred the older woman, reclining back into the corner of the sofa as if settling in for a night of Netlifx.

“Yes, Mistress,” I whispered, knowing it was the right thing to say.

With halting movements, I began to strip, kicking off my sneakers first, then rolling my vest top over my head. My skirt came next, pushed down my legs and kicked aside like an afterthought.

“Everything,” said Ms. Sharp, her eyes trailing down my body, lingering on my bra and panties.

“Yes, Mistress,” I nodded. I reached behind myself to unclasp my bra. For the longest time, I fumbled with the fastener, feeling it slip through my trembling, sweaty fingers. Finally, it gave way, and my bra slid down my arms to the floor and into irrelevance. I felt the cool lick of the air conditioned room on my aching nipples and closed my eyes, trying to control the borderline panic that my near-nakedness had provoked. Then, with a sigh, I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and pushed them down my legs.

“You’re beautiful,” said Ms. Sharp, sliding her hand slowly over her velvet soft thigh. Honestly, if she hadn’t said that, I think I might have scooped up my discarded clothes and fled sobbing into the street. But her words were a salve to my fear, her sentiment calmed me like shot of the strongest drug.

“Th-thank you, Mistress,” I said.

On shaking legs, I stepped forward, walking as if in a dream, watched every step of the way by the appraising gaze of the older woman. I sighed as I lowered myself down to the floor before her and folded my legs beneath my body, enthralled by how right that simple gesture of submission felt. I wanted to be lower than her, I wanted to look up at her, I wanted her to peer down at me with those hungry, greedy eyes. I wanted to be wanted like that, no matter how wrong it sounds to you. I wanted to be her plaything, her toy, her possession.

“How may I serve you, Mistress?” I said, repeating the question that she’d demanded of me, experiencing a warm flush of satisfaction as I did so.

Ms. Sharp touched her index finger to her full lips and studied me. Then she raised her right leg and held her foot out in the air before me. “Take off my shoe,” she purred, extending her ankle, pointing her toes at my breasts.

I sighed. “Yes, Mistress,” I said, feeling dizzy and out of control. Shaking visibly, I reached forward and curled my fingers around her ankle and lifted her leg. Slowly, gently, I gripped the spiked heel of her stiletto pump and eased the expensive shoe from her foot. Her toes rippled in the air before my face, stretching the sheer nylon that encased them. I smelled her for the first time, an exquisite aroma of perfume, sweat and shoe leather. My heart was already pounding hard, but that intimate proximity to another woman’s body made it gallop somehow faster.

I glanced to the side and set the shoe down beside me, then turned back to her, still holding her leg up in front of me, unwilling to let it go.

Ms. Sharp let her body slide forward on the sofa, parting her legs, forcing her tight dress to gather at her hips. I sighed as she was revealed to me, marvelling at every detail. The intricate, delicate lace of her stocking tops; the creamy flesh of her inner thighs; the sordid revelation of her lack of panties; and the smooth shaven perfection of her sex, an inviting pink line of plump flesh, glistening in the late afternoon sun with a wetness that I longed to taste.

My brazen observation was interrupted by the melodic chime of her voice. “What time are you expected home, honey?” she asked, jarring me from my sordid thoughts by the normality of her query.

“Uh, I’m not, I guess… my mom and dad are out of town, and my brother is away at camp.” Somehow, recounting the details of my mundane family life while kneeling there naked before the exposed splendor of an older woman’s dripping wet sex seemed to thrill more than anything so far.

“Good,” smiled Ms. Sharp, curling her toes so that her velvet soft digits glanced the tip of my nose, “then we have plenty of time.”

“Time, Mistress?” I asked, desperate to hear more.

“Yes. I want you to start at the tip of my toes, and I want you to use your mouth. I want you worship my body, kissing me, licking me, sucking me, with your tongue and your lips. And I want you to take your time. I want you to work your way from my foot, up my leg, past my knee and to my inner thighs,” she touched her hands to the silky expanse between her legs, as if to illustrate the anatomical journey that I was about to take. “And, sometime in the next hour or so, I want you to reach here.” She paused and moved her hand upwards, using two fingers to splay open the pink lips of her sex. “And when you get there, well, you’ll know what to do.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I nodded, feeling giddy and terrified in equal measure, my inexperience flooding my mind with the raw fear of failure. “I’ve never… I’ve never done that before,” I added, nodding at the rose petals of her exposed pussy.

She smiled down at me and brushed my cheek with her nylon foot. “That’s okay, honey,” she purred. “If you get it wrong, then I’ll have to spank you. And you don’t want that, do you?”

I shook my head. “No, Mistress,” I lied. Oh god, I did want that, I did!

“Good,” she said, beaming a warm smile down at me that wouldn’t have seemed out of place at a PTA meeting or Little League game. I sighed as I basked in the radiance of her, momentarily oblivious to my nakedness or the close proximity of her stockinged foot. “Well,” she purred, after an eternity of seconds. “What are you waiting for?”

I gasped a quick apology, and then closed my eyes, sinking into a state of docile obedience that would become second nature to me over the coming weeks and months. I leaned forward, gingerly touching my lips to the tip of her big toe. The soft texture and subtle warmth caused me to sigh slowly, a release of tension, an arc of electric contact. I leaned in again, kissing her sole this time, flicking my tongue out to sample her flavor. Oh god, she taste wonderful! Aroused and excited, I felt myself settle into a rhythm, a curious exploration of new sensations and new urges. The savory flavor of her, the silk touch of her on my lips, the feel of her toes curling against my face. It became a sensory overload that had no equal.

As I sank into my task, time ceased to have meaning. My recollection of that first submission consists of a sequence of moments, snapshots from a sordid album. Her writhing toes in my mouth; my face pressed into the soles of her feet, smothered by her, filling my lungs with her; kissing my way over the toned curve of her calf; lingering for an eternity in that special place behind her knee; licking long, wet trails up the inside of her legs; finding the pale cream of her upper thigh… And then, finally, reaching that most coveted destination and… pausing.

I took a breath and shook my head, arms curled around the older woman’s thighs, attempting to clear my thoughts. Her glistening lips were inches from my mouth, I could feel the warmth radiating off her pussy, I could smell that impossibly arousing aroma of pure womanhood. I wanted to sink my tongue into her, I wanted to devour her, to lose myself in that wet heaven. Instead, fighting hard to control my longing, I glanced up at her from between her legs and locked my eyes on hers.

“Mistress,” I whispered. “May I eat your pussy?”

It was her turn to sigh, her turn to gasp in delight and surprise. She peered down at me with dancing eyes, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. “Yes, honey, you may eat my pussy. You may eat my pussy as much as you like.” She paused and chewed on her lower lip. “And, later, I will eat yours.”

I closed my eyes and breathed out slowly, excited to an impossible degree by this porn-cliché talk with a woman who was old enough to be my mother. And when I finally centered myself, when I finally felt enough control return to my shaking body to direct it to where I wanted it to go, only then did I begin my sordid task, only then did I fulfil my ultimate purpose.

With a long sigh, I swept my tongue across the pink wetness of her pussy and flicked the bulging nub of her clitoris with a playful stroke. Though I’d never gone down on another woman before, though I’d barely even considered it, I found that I knew exactly what to do, exactly how to move. Guided by the sound of her sighs and the tender nudges of her long fingers in my hair, I charted that new territory with the enthusiastic zeal of an explorer in a new land. I was a scientist of pleasure, noting her cries and moans, iterating my technique to achieve maximum efficiency, to elicit the pleasure that I felt born to give her.

And, all the while, as my mouth conjured ecstasy in my Mistress’s body, my own pussy ached with the anticipation of what was to come. Like jungle drums, it pounded waves of pleasure out into my own body, fuelled by her taste and driven by the forbidden knowledge of what I was, what I’d become – an owned girl, a living doll, a sex toy. It was only the first step on my journey, but I already knew where it led. Obedience, docility, submissiveness, blank mindlessness. All of this I craved and all of this I knew I would achieve. The realization thrilled me to the point of climax.

But it was Ms. Sharp, my Mistress, who would know that sweet release first. And know it, she did. Her orgasm was long and quick, surprising me with its intensity and the sheer force of her pleasure. As she gripped my head with her thighs, I greedily slurped the warm liquid of her ecstasy into my body, drinking her like an elixir, craving her like a drug. It was the first time I did it, but not the last, not by long way. And every taste felt better than the one before, such was the magnitude of my devotion and adoration.

So, now you know. Now you know why I am the sex slave of an older woman. But I have one question for you, one that I hope you will take time to think about as you’re lying awake tonight, thinking of my sinful tale.

Why aren’t you?